J

She isn't used to this weather.

The Seattle winter sun burns her skin

worn tough for frozen arctic winds. 

Today in their village on the Chukchi Sea

the sun rose in the afternoon

and set twenty-one minutes later. 

There is hardly a daybreak to speak of – 

just a faint orange glow 

hemmed in by ice and star-busy sky.

Alone together in the house she built, 

she and her son watched endless tiktoks 

of black holes and cosmic dust.

One day, soul-hungry for the faraway, 

he aimed his arrow too high. 

She fears he may never come down. 

This hospital contains more people 

than their entire hometown. 

She wanders its friendless hallways

and prays for the rain in her mind to stop.

When she asks me for a bear hug,

I try my best to make it hurt. 

It doesn’t, but she smiles anyway. 

Eventually they will find their way 

back to the darkness of home. 

We are both dead sure of it.