Poetry: Mapping Mortality

The illusion is the rising green horizon where farmland meets sky before eye can glimpse coast, Cascade mountains bounding our valley like border walls. This home is no prairie, where you set cruise to 70 and await rainbows, uncanny wonders. Our peaks, instead, so imposing they stymie migrations: illness mortality rage—the slow progress of regress the farther we roam from our mirror pond. Driving over a hillock, I see Hood rise to the east, newly frosted with snow; to the west, a rugged artery of imposition between me and life I knew before I turned pioneer, drying my shoes each night by this fire, each morning my back to the sun.

Facebook Comments

Leave a Reply