May The North Forgive Us
The ice is full of omens today,
you tell me, while you harness
the last dog to the sled.
The ice speaks to us always.
It tells us of its struggles,
how it wishes to be left alone,
to recover, gather back its strength.
But our belly’s are full of aches.
We think of the ice struggling with
the weight of the world, but we know
we must move, we must eat.
Yet, we are not like the white man.
We weep for the North.
The ice cracks so fast, I’m watching
the head dog’s nose sink beneath the
frothy white soup before I’ve chance to scream.
Down they all go, down into the deep shadows of the sea.
The sled I was born on during a blizzard is gone,
and the man who rode it can’t promise me
a beautiful, cold tomorrow.
The ice will not return here.
May the north one day forgive
what we have done to it.