My latest escape plan
is to fly over the Pacific Northwest
in a single prop plane that valiantly
battles the polar wind. I'll land
on the gravel bar of a glacial river
and stake claim to a plot of woodland
with a log cabin sturdy enough to keep out
bears and wolves. My axe will tring
in the morning quiet.
There will be treks across meadows of white,
through pine trees ruffled in snow.
Perhaps I'll walk out onto a frozen lake,
listening for that heart-stopping sound
like a steel cable snapping.
But the ice will hold my weight,
and with a gloved hand
I'll wipe it clear so I can look down
and shudder. Then back to the hearth
where I'll read Jack London
and Cormac McCarthy,
the Wyoming Stories of Annie Proulx.
Tales about lives
set against the cold, the Arctic night,
on a page that glows by a single bulb
where the black type is anthracite,
and the words spark fire.
First published in The New European.