Tiny songs for a woman who watches
By Kim Fahner
|
|
*
Edges of ice aren’t sharp, even though they look it from safety of shore out to unknown depth of sea. * Mother-of-pearl. Ivory. Palest of pale. Veins of turquoise run ragged, mark melt, cut ice, then freeze over and over again. * She walked down to the sea, all tall-built-walls and curled-up-inside fear, and she left it there in sacrifice, as offering. Put it in a basket. Set it on the waves. Let the mermaids gather it. Wrap it in seaweed. Let the seals drag it through the brine, heavy, to its end. She walked down to the sea, all broken glass, shattered. Tasted salt and light, iron of blood on lips, her tongue silenced, fearful. Fins flip silver out there, under sun, but resist being seen. And so, let your eyes soften and gather. Then, soften and gather again. She walked down to the sea, at first notion of sunset, opened her mouth wide and sang: a single note, a siren’s song, a story. * Edges of ice aren’t sharp, and the sea sculpts it all: traces curves, caresses what is seen and unseen, along this body, this coastline. * Out there, beyond farthest point of rock, iceberg looms while moon hovers now, waits. She watches—impatient-- for quick spark of flint, for slight shiver of ice, for rough calving, and then lightning birth. She waits for a crashing of form fashioned into another-- bits made mirrored mosaic on deep navy. She extends an arm, a hand, palm upwards, opened and receiving. Out there, beyond that rough shore, she conjures up evolution-- conducts air currents, Atlantic waves, capelin and cod, humpbacks and minkes. She sends kittiwakes, soaring, to attend that cathedral’s ending. She rides on backs of eagles, perched on rock islands, feathers worn-weathered, out to where it sits mammoth, sky-lit and graced. She speaks of newness now, as ice is made palimpsest, that mirrored mosaic wake that trails behind, on deepest shade of navy sea. Out there, in darkness and under stars, beyond that last point of land, the ice yearns and longs, moans, shifts in sleep, rolls restless. Turns over and crowns itself anew, settling as pieces rub up against one another, whispering tender things before the tempest. She goes down to the harbour afterwards, waits for an arrival that never comes, a ship that never docks. Bends to find pieces of broken sea urchins, green-shaded and pale-misted. Gathers them up in the catch of her hem, shells shattered and fragile. * Litany now, and then just once more after: Mother-of-pearl. Ivory. Palest of pale. Murmur of rosary beads slipping through fingers, touch gentle, light, and of mother and grandmother-- blessing what’s gone before her. Mother-of-pearl. Ivory. And, oh, palest of pale. She goes down to the sea, her hair curls of wild ribbons, her skin like alabaster, and she listens to the sea-song: Trust. Let go. To sea, to sky, to heart. * She walks down to the sea, so wreathed in rough weather. She walks down to the sea, lost and forgotten, but rises to cry of gulls, crash of wave, flip of whale’s grand tail. All passion and power. She walks down to the sea, hears the ice whisper, listens to the seals speak, the whale song echoing. Then-- sings her own song. * Edges of ice aren’t sharp, even though they look it, and neither are the hearts that watch them-- so sea and sky woven, so braided. Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario. She was the fourth poet laureate of Sudbury (2016-18) and was the first woman appointed to the role. Her latest book of poems is These Wings (Pedlar Press, 2019). She is a member of The League of Canadian Poets, the Ontario Representative of The Writers' Union of Canada, and a supporting member of the Playwrights Guild of Canada. She's currently working on a new novel and a series of bee poems. Kim recently won first place in the 2021 League of Canadian Poets' National Broadsheet Contest with her poem, "Beekeeping." She may be reached via her author website at www.kimfahner.com
|
