iona rozeal brown
Fly So Free
+
Canon 501
| The song was moist, filing away, drifting while we drifted, something in blackface, Al Jolson of birdland, not quite right, prophesizing until hoarse who knows what. The locals say he draws poison from you, angatkuk, shaman, though they don’t believe it. Then the incongruous smell of chrysanthemum crossed us up and we remembered the service-station with someone in handcuffs. Probably a mistake, said the attendant, though they do get violent. The prisoner yawned. Our map lumbered from point to point as if trying to remember something itself, anything. We tossed it and got out. On the long walk back the tundra looked cozier by moonlight, everywhere the same, white as bleached whalebone. But things had not been right all day. In the damp heat everything was wobbly, even the bride at the old mission who seemed to grow clouds like companions, drawing them after. I glimpsed a ring of seal-fur flash on her wrist. Mm-hmm, unh-hunh they went. The honeymoon was spent beyond the rigs. It was enough for them it didn’t rain or snow though the driftwood fire they made beside the boats was all smoke. The sea sounded obscure as if it had no shape and was empty. We tried to capture it on Canon 501 and sent it south, but even that seemed staged. |
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