Cain

And I'll compose in red ink, strike
north east to that home of old ice.
Closet and cloister muscle rippling fear
and rage within walls of short needled
jackpine

I'll be a monk, wrapped
in dun robes, my tonsured, tired
skull shielded by a rough-spun linen
hood, guard my feet in hard leather boots,
eyelets cinched tight.

I'll trudge through crusted snow, the crunch
and fall of my feet a hymn
while ravens fly like scissored
silhouettes on the gray sky and ring their unkind bells.

My paces will grind through the days; I'll walk
until the ground stops crying. That day
I'll build a pyre, lie down to rest cradled
in the sap smell of wood shavings, strike
spark and make my sacrifice.

I'll hope this time the smoke is pleasing.

Walking Home in the Dark

The air is cold under the pin-holed
night sky, lover, and ice crystals
hang like actinic
film on gray aspens.

I’ll be your homespun sweater,
rough against bare skin. Take me as your patched
quilt. Use me for a tattered overcoat
turn my collar to the wind.

Tonight is dark, the northern lights crackle
and spit, green streaks like fingers
raking down the back of the night.
The moon is new
and only the subtle outline of trees
against the unclouded sky
marks our way.

Let me stumble the dark trails
ahead of you; I’ll trip
out a clear path.
I’ll be your guttering torch
against the dark, lover.
Light me on fire.

Burning

I have burned
for you
and would burn still.
Bonfires, flames licking
tall, like the run of my tongue
up your ribs.
Pyres, I would light with the heat of my skin
against yours; embers
from our lips kindle watch fires
to ward the evening.
Fingers trace lava runs
following sweat beads over spine.
High towers burn like rivers
running up, spit and crackle
and collapse in a shower of sparks,
flames easing to well-banked
coals and dimming to night,
the only heat our salt-slick
skins, the sigh and pant
of our breath, misted
like smoke
against the darkening sky.