Skip to main content


ISSUE:  Spring 1981
I have been ice-fishing, cutting
through carefully to avoid

the spread of cracks. I built
a willow cabin, piled on skins,

crawled inside and looked up;
stared into the dark until

my eyes opened their blackness.
Light from the water floated up,

folding me inside its cold bubble.
Light gave water its spirit and

water gave light flesh. I lay
on my belly filling with light

and let down my lead-filled wood
on its packthread. Deep

on the bottom shadows drifted.
I played them closer, ever

closer, undeceived by the moon
inside the lake. I played them,

and remembered the squirrel’s
earth-cold fingers made a

human touch as I handed it food,
eating in my thin blue shadow.


This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading