Serving my Mother,
The holy herder of goats,
The master of these wastelands,
Combing her red, matted hair,
Of vines and moss,
In a tundra bed,
A sighing sanctuary,
Of still green leaves,
Sleeping with the millipedes,
The hibernating cicadas,
And the earwigs,
Wrapped tightly,
In Jesus's scaly, shed skin
Her nightstand,
Host to mosquito larvae,
Morphine,
And the mercy of a thousand Christs,
Blinded,
By the dull prongs of a polar sun,
A wandering city of caribou,
Also stop to sleep,
Lucidity,
Pouring out as hot breath,
Speaking with the cold air,
Conversations about the melting permafrost,
And the end of the world.
