NORTH OF WINTER
The dictionary word of the day is ultima Thule,
the land beyond the northernmost region on the maps.
Is that where you are now? Your poems loved winter.
Like the Mad Trapper are you walking backwards,
bone glasses over your eyes so you won’t go blind?
You were before you died, going blind I mean, the straight
lines on a grid wavering when you looked close.
Macular degeneration, the doctor said, for which there is no cure.
May I say, now that my words cannot disturb you (we were so careful
near the end), you were dying though I could not see it then.
In Saskatchewan
we drove through countless storms, your hands tight on the wheel,
snakes of snow slithering across the road, erasing the yellow line,
joining lane and ditch. That was the start perhaps,
your eyes blizzarded. In this north of north where I can’t go,
your breath’s come back and hangs in ice-flecked clouds
as you walk backwards into snow. Through narrow slits cut
into bone, bone is all you see.
Copyright © 2023 by Lorna Crozier. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.