On the day they killed the last caribou, I was in love—and I did not know caribou or cities or the needs of either. I did not know scilla, and did not know a new love would be hired to trim the grass around it. The blue flowers came up through the grass like the grass remembering. This new love and I, we drove once between cities of snow, and through the trees I could see a herd moving, matching us, pulling away.
Copyright © 2017 Jill Osier. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Summer 2017.