The Icelandic Canadian - 01.08.2002, Blaðsíða 41

Vol. 57 #1
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Poetry
North Shoreline
by Karen McElrea
The end of the world is where sun meets snow.
The afternoon and I withdraw into late gloom
as the children hunt wordlessly for snow-bugs,
wood chipping at ice. They become still at the
last flash of day and then retry their limbs, not
trusting the illusion of a black blanket’s thaw.
I don’t exist, nor is there such a hue as that
watery orange sun. If they dig deep enough,
will they find him staring brighteyed with a
last promise? I’ll bring you fish, elskan min,
and together we’ll build a proper smokehut.
You mustn’t cry in this bitter air. Don’t cry.
There is nothing to move the fine crystals
between us and a long horizon: no spruce
or soft slopes or deer or bear. Nothing to
hold the eye but the vision of next spring
without a son or daughter. Twin orphans
can become nothing with no provisions.
They move toward me, smiles creasing
scales around their mouths. Air wriggles
between pinched thumbs and forefingers.
“My worm’s biggest,” they say together.
Darkness melts between them, spreading,
as a howl tunnels through the invisible sky.