A series of poems, entitled "Arctic Graffiti," about untangled seal guts, elusive hares and Inuit sculptors in the Arctic tundra.
with the usual boys of summer shooting
slapshots like rifles. Puck-scuffed Plexiglas
rebounding off Paul’s gaze. The Somalian
kid in the chopper crewman’s goggles grins
at us. The top of another boy’s head’s
been sliced open like an egg, his skull wiped
clean inside by bullet fire. The infant’s
head twists off its chest, topples from the bed
to the warped wood floor. Sand is snow. Let’s go
okay? This lighting’s for shit and these damn
kids keep knocking my camera. How many
hands you have? I have two, you have two but
what happened to Paul? Oh well, he was born
that way. Just like you were born Inuit
and I was born with anxiety. Help him!
Help him! Why won’t you help your friend? See that
hole in the wall, Dan? Most people notice
that and think someone’s been drilling. I see
a bullet hole. How fucked is that? Fording
flumes of snow indistinguishable from
celestial dunes. Wondering who is that man
following us? Why don’t we try to find
a shaman, Paul? I’ve read the Inuit
still believe that shamans can turn themselves
into animals, seals and bears. Into
other people too. All in the pursuit
of exorcising ghosts. An Arctic hare
like a newborn standing weirdly upright
in the skidoo’s sweeping glare. When the light’s
gone, hare’s gone also. Oh, which reminds me,
Dan, I’m trying to set up a sled ride
with these Inuit hunters. 500
dollars but I’ll pay it, or the Star will
I mean. While flakes of snow drift down like dust
off the high shelf. Wasted men in doorways
let us pass. Graffiti warning, Arctic
for life! Because the Internet’s calling
for snow tonight, but we’ll try to have fun
tomorrow if the weather’s any good.
This is the second of three poems. Read the third one.