Nunataq

In a strait, some things are useful. 
Others, true, she turns to ash. 

Thrust, thus—

her head thick with arrogance,  
infection and futility.

It could be how a young wife went,
strewn with net-veined willow  
and mountain aven— 

trespass, and wreckage.  
She could write about the year  
she turned to heat and haze, 

to laze: immurmurat-,  
imauraaqtuŋa. Of cannula 
and silver nitrate. Of petiolus 

and achene, about to begin again.  
Of greens as they green. Of a man 

aged, eskered. Of a confined gleam—  
to hereby dissolve and hold for naught

the soil / gravel / silt groaning  
as the tools of our penultimate glacier, 
 
a glacier I might pronounce like grief. 

One does wish for words to thaw  
in the mouth, but find instead a tongue,

welt. Erosional or depositional, raised 
& visible, rift into language & grit—