migration

by cathy tagnak rexford from effigies

i am a cedar mask, devouring my own tongue,
i close the space between my teeth with permafrost.
from this i will heave forth the brooks range,
leech my ears into the shape of whale flukes,
mount my face to the white wall
of a gallery.

outside, a cab driver with a cigarette drooping
from his lip, swerves as you stand
in the middle of the street, your left foot
on the painted white line, your right
on the edge of a melting polar icecap
as a thousand black and white kissing scenes
project on the skin of a deceased bowhead.

together, we pain the grooves of our mouths
with radio static and black shale.
     we opened our eyes this morning,
     the air was blue.
we carved bare-breasted women into
coastal bluffs of the chukchi sea,
they are beaten every autumn as
wind passes its hand over the waves.
we run into the city, into concrete nightmares;
we fault ourselves into the glass hallway where we stand.