The Idea of Forever

Chris Hutchinson

After last call at three a.m. the sun
on the hori­zon like a giant lodestar
would guide us over uneven board­walks and dirt roads
toward the George Black Ferry, across
the mud-fed Yukon River to where our hid­den world
of tents lay inside a maze of birch,
where branches knocked and clacked in the wind
like the rest­less bones of ghosts,
where some­one always screamed blue mur­der back
at the land­locked sled dogs as they cried
and howled at the lin­ger­ing sea­son
and stun­ning lack of dark­ness
inside the night. This was Dawson City
where we’d all come from some­thing
vague: a town, a girl, a life.
Most had sim­ply drifted into the ever–
widen­ing space of summer’s north, hop­ing
to find work, hop­ing absence,
hard drink­ing and per­pet­ual light could
wipe the slate clean: it seemed we were all young
enough to trust in the lib­erty of for­get­ful­ness—
the days blur­ring with­out nights, drink­ing
sour toes with the tourists then
over-proof whisky at the Midnight Sun then
black­outs and wak­ing beside the river
if not delighted, at least sur­prised
to be alive, soaked and numb.
Had it been a dream, strange-throated ravens
gar­gling in the trees like drown­ing men,
or just some lone per­son
weep­ing?
In the morn­ing, no one could be sure.
Although I con­fess, one night
the first star appeared, an unsightly blem­ish
in the milky sky like a pin­prick in the idea
of for­ever: fall was com­ing and I was afraid
to travel south, to move alone again,
and fur­ther toward the slowly dimin­ish­ing
light.