This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bear’s Winter Of The Salamander, “When We Assume Life Will Go Well For Us”. Ray’s work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me.
From His Dream
the air hadn’t changedÂ
since she last saw her mother.
the land was cover with frozenÂ
rain. she knew a couple of daysÂ
ahead that the spring would disappear.
she kept reminding to her husband,Â
it’ll have to come back.Â
i don’t think it’s really over with,Â
but he always seemed disinterested.Â
a look of worry in his eyes.Â
even as it was snowing,Â
thunder rolled across the roofÂ
of their home and they couldn’tÂ
help glancing at each otherÂ
with puzzled faces. bodiesÂ
of disemboweled animals flashedÂ
in their minds,Â
the children ran about in playÂ
but when they ran into their father’sÂ
eyes, they could see the lightÂ
of their rooms, the changing contrastÂ
of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning inÂ
the figure of seals on a tree.
the second time they ran,Â
the wind made sounds as ifÂ
there were people with their mouthsÂ
up against the house, talking.
as it grew colder, the snow madeÂ
more noise against the plasticsÂ
coverings over the windows.
when the children looked outsideÂ
they could see the clouds piling upÂ
on top of each other, each groupÂ
darker than the other.Â
across the room where their mother
sat they could distinctly visualizeÂ
the changing color of her lips.Â
teeth biting into her skin.
they followed as she circledÂ
the room, spitting the chewed willowÂ
all around the windows.
their son has been gone mostÂ
of the day. it wasn’t unusual for himÂ
to hunt alone. he always seemed to knowÂ
what to do. old enough to be giftedÂ
naturally to keep away from flowing women,
he had spoken about sliding down hillsÂ
on his knees, picking up the snowÂ
to his ears and hearing the thoughtsÂ
of deer, bringing packed bodiesÂ
of muskrat and duck, the differentÂ
crusts of blood on his shoulder bag.
from a distance, his fatherÂ
could see his tracks headingÂ
into the thickets. small owls guidedÂ
their way through brush by the touchÂ
in their wings. he remembered a dreamÂ
he had that morning of giant fishÂ
and coral snakes submerged in the icy watersÂ
of a river he had never seen.Â
he and his son cornering a small horse
covered with fish scales, bearingÂ
the head of a frightened man.Â
its thin legs and cracked hooves.Â
somewhere in this land he knewÂ
there was a place where these creaturesÂ
existed. he had also been told of a hole
where the spirits spent their days,Â
watching the people before they crawledÂ
out, traveling through their arcsÂ
in the sky towards evening like birds.
on the way back home, thinking his sonÂ
had circled the forest, he crawledÂ
across a section of river which was stillÂ
covered with ice and fish entrails,Â
previous spots where he had taughtÂ
his son to use a blanket to blockÂ
out the daylight to lie thereÂ
with his barbed spear, waitingÂ
for catfish to lumber out from the rootsÂ
of fallen trees under the ice.Â
although he felt a desire to crawlÂ
straight across without lookingÂ
down into the river bottom throughÂ
the clear ice, something caught his eye,Â
as he peered into the bubbling water,Â
he saw the severed head of his son,Â
the hoof from his dream,Â
bouncing along the sandy bottom.
