Tongue of Open Water
       

In my dreams I am fully ice-covered,
            but when I awaken to warm storms

and waves, I am shredded thin.

My bed no longer hugs the coastline
            where walrus haul their bellies

across stone and ice to birth their young.

Ice now moves in later, vanishes sooner,
            and hunters travel for days and days.

What do I make of this?

They say I am an indicator of oceanic influences,
            but maybe I have convinced myself

of this importance. All I know is this condition

shows no signs of absorbing into my surface
            layer, no signs it recognizes familiar

patterns, or knows how to follow the contours

of my landscape, yet somehow fully aware
            of the age-old warning—

that I am too fragile to journey alongside

any longer; the loss of my former self,
            exposed and gaping.

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Copyright © 2021 Vivian Faith Prescott All rights reserved
from The Last Glacier at the End of the World
Split Rock Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission