Mary Morris
Ecosystems of the Arctic Circle
The horizon is a procession of ice.
Blood flows inside the warm hut of the body.
The body is a place.
Something can crack the ice in you,
integrate a passage, permit torrents.
Elk crossing tundra, silver king
leaping upstream.
There comes a point when you listen to water,
all the liquid of the world, the way waves break
and then the baby comes.
A healthy boy, large as a salmon,
attaches like a barnacle.
Sweet milk.
Underneath us—bear fur, hides of reindeer.
Yesterday, I was one.
Today, we divided like a cell.