The War Reporter Paul Watson and the Poet Go For a Walk in the Arctic

A series of poems, entitled "Arctic Graffiti," about untangled seal guts, elusive hares and Inuit sculptors in the Arctic tundra.

Blood is scattered like what it is, or jewels
around the body of a seal. Belly
-up, frozen whiskers, mostly canine snout.
Its abdomen is open to the wind
like a broken birdcage. Steam rising up.
The Inuit hunter’s untangling guts
like a bunch of udon noodles. Squeezing
the weedy shit onto the ice, slicing
out the beet red organs neatly, flopping
them into a plastic tray on the boot
of his skidoo. They’re good stuff when they’re cooked,
he says. Stomach, heart. My boys just love it
when my wife cooks these! Paul asks for a piece
of liver. Sliding it off the wide blade
of the hunter’s knife, Tastes like sushi! When
I ask him if he misses Iraq and
places like that, he answers, My body’s
been craving raw meat.

This is the first of three poems. Read the second one.

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