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.