365 Poems/89 Utburd (Rough First Draft)
Utburd (The out-carried child)
The forest wants to give you a name,
and you are transfixed by the tops of the firs
and the stars. You reach out to touch them,
to touch all of what’s above, but I wrap your arms
tight, and edge on through the snow in the dark,
away from the village, towards the mountains.
As I unwrap you from your blankets, I expect
a scream. Cold closed my mouth a long time ago.
But you are quiet. You look past me.
In the snow melt, they find your bones,
marked with the bite of the wolf.
I lower my head when they news comes,
and remember your silence.
I am scared to look over my shoulder
while I split logs at dusk, for I have seen you
outdoors, when the sun has set beneath the fjord.
I have heard you crying, seen you moving
out from between the shadows of the trees.
From inside, behind the window, I watch you
pulling your tiny body forward, disappearing
only when the sun burns up the dew.