In a strait, some things are useful.
Others, true, she turns to ash.

Thrust, thus—

her head thick with arrogance,
infection and futility.

It could be how a young wife went,
strewn with net-veined willow
and mountain aven—

trespass, and wreckage.
She could write about the year
she turned to heat and haze,

to laze: immurmurat-,
imauraaqtuŋa. Of cannula
and silver nitrate. Of petiolus

and achene, about to begin again.
Of greens as they green. Of a man

aged, eskered. Of a confined gleam—
to hereby dissolve and hold for naught

the soil / gravel / silt groaning
as the tools of our penultimate glacier,
a glacier I might pronounce like grief.

One does wish for words to thaw
in the mouth, but find instead a tongue,

welt. Erosional or depositional, raised
& visible, rift into language & grit—


"Nunataq," from Another Bright Depature, published by CutBank.