Who’s to Say?

The surface is frozen,
faulted, slate
Creaks like an old woman
pulling herself apart
over god

A boy
sits by the stone cold river, whittling sticks
beneath the crystal tacks in the night,
and dreams of an island garden,
where trees
hang bruised fruit
He carves his name
in thickest trunk

Next morning,
woolly mittens and sleeves frozen to a drift
hold his head above water
Blood hangs
from his lip
His tongue is missing

The old woman creaks
and moans
as the boy is found
and candles are lit
Candles,

the boy thinks,
and the stars
holding the night to the sky
These tacks will hold,
fixed, unlike sound
Unlike the river
and the island never found

*Originally published March 2022 by Punk Noir, with thanks to the editors there.