Up Here

Looking back,

it seems all there’s ever been is Chukchi Sea ice

and enough of us to drill holes in it, fish through it,

fall in.

 

We forgotten ones, born

cold, in the days of night,

suckling fire, weaned onto moonshine

in our fathers’ fishing huts.

 

We who at two raised our first glass

to the poor bastards who would never

be us one day, those caught out

over freeze-up

 

All of us waiting

to understand the holes in the ice

and the cold ones under the frozen sea,

waiting to be the fish, the fire,

the water under everything.

 

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