Mooring

Kirsten Kaschock

You are living and I keep you in one still piece alive.

On the ice, everything held quiet, and after—

marks from knives we wore on our feet.

It takes practice, living cold. I was convinced

a partner was needed to survive it. I scuttled

blood into blue territory for later extraction.

It isn’t as if we won’t die. Poet and sister. Equinox.

Our parents scarce need mentioning, legend

before our first rebellions sifted to earth in leaves

felled. Thin arms were an aesthetic choice, small

heads like ova, nodding between the immensity

of an independent life or a return to Chicago.

Wide streets we called boulevards. Skies stretched

out of reach, then elevators. Somewhere else

a mechanical piano tiredly lifted its hands to etch

frost into rust. Berceuse. Landscaped, you I held

faster than winter, in seizure. Vivant sans merci.

(Joan Mitchell)