i drift like a birch canoe
sewn of strips of my skin.
each artery a stolen name:
passadumkeag,
mattawamkeag,
abagadasset.
there are deer in my chest,
and a few bear; but there should be wolves
and pumas too.
we live in a world
where paws hardly sprint
and streetlamps slaughter.
our bright minds ride wires,
but part of me refuses to budge.
i don't want a son
with chips in his nape.
some of us will not cross over
into that place
where raindrops fall on screens.
we choose real wind.
natural leaves over the virtual.
Chris Crittenden, Maine, USA
2 comments:
new bio: Chris Crittenden swoons over spruce trees and birch bark, and delights in stormy tides that sculpt rocky shores. If his poems save an owl--somehow,somewhere, someday--it will have all been worthwhile. He thanks the readers of Bolks of Silk for reading, and for any comments.
Beautiful piece. I especially like the opening stanza, that's a great image. (I also like the bio: poems saving owls.) Thank you!
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