365 Poems: 20 Vegvisir (Rough First Draft)


The map of my escape is scrawled

on the palm of my hand in blue biro.

I just need to find where it begins and ends,

so you can dress me in flowers and soil.


But you grab my arm and I’m locked,

where I can feel your heart throbbing.

You spit on my palm and scrub it with tissue.


You try and explain in a way I’ll understand

that comings and goings of emotions

are like caribou, that they have routes and ways,

that I need to trust myself like these animals do.


You say even caribou must rest, but rest doesn’t mean

time is up, but that I am better preparing myself

for the journey, letting my body regain its strength.


You say preparation and patience will assist

when I am there on the upper reaches

of the next mountain, where danger of falling is rife,

where air is thinner and harder to accept,

where rocks can be rotten, verges lost in moments.


You say in these high places

I will find my way through rough weather,

even if the way is not known.