—after Claire Wahmanholm
Instead there is a wide field of grass.
Instead there is a wide blue sky.
Instead the hot vapor rises
as steam from the pot
out of the earth and into the air.
Breath hardens
into ice. The black sand reaches
with long fingers
into the cave. Wraps itself
around tall
hexagonal stacks of basalt,
columns
of stone. The steps of giants
who lived
on this land long before us.
We spiral
toward infinity. We parade
down the streets
of dead men who doubted
the world
could ever be different. When
the sun appears,
finally and at last, each day
begins. And
begins with a deep, true sound:
I am
still here.
—
Jesse Holth is a writer, editor, and poet based in Lekwungen territory. Her poems have been featured in Poetry Magazine, Prairie Schooner, Room, Grain, CV2, PRISM, and other publications. She is currently working on two full-length collections.
