Living in Analog

The cold is a mother as generous as the space between the stars. I gave her my discontent & my distance: all those older & more restless selves who are still out there, moving away at the speed of light. I grinned for Polaroid & single-lens reflex alike, but inside I was wincing. Cold.

I learned how to knit when I was seven: scarves & sweaters, socks & gloves, maps & pastures & that long deep lake I later loved. By then I’d crossed oceans, no mere mermaid; you couldn’t touch me without noticing the scars from ships’ propellers & orca attacks, the stubborn barnacles. On land I was a sycamore, rich in baubles no one wanted, struggling to peel down to a warmer skin.