PEOPLE LEARN GLACIERS MOVE YEARS AFTER A GUIDE IS LOST

 

He fell. It snowed. The crevice
closed. Children were born. It snowed
some more. They grew. Married.
It was June when the arm and hand
appeared in the village, ejected
from the glacier’s base. The flesh—
still white and firm. They knew
his ring. Old men felt privileged
to see their friend, to bid him leave.
Our lost ones linger halfway down
some blue-walled crevasse, nowhere
to hold. Who knows if they notice
when sun scrapes noon? What part,
preserved by ice, might reappear?

 

 

Kathryn Weld’s poetry and prose have appeared in various journals, including Southeast Review, Cortland Review; Midwest Quarterly, Maine Review, American Book Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Waking Light, was published in 2019 by Kattywompus Press. Weld teaches mathematics at Manhattan College.

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