Heather Hamilton

In the fever

dream, you drift

between the clean,

cold cliffs

of a fjord.

The sky is blue,

the granite cliffs

are blue,

and the steam

that rises from

the water

is as blue

as your lips.

Between your skin

and the water

is a boat.

The boat is burning

calmly around you,

a Viking message meaning:

You will be missed;

please don’t

come back.

Now the cliffs

begin to shudder,

as if from the cold,

and blue stones

roll end-over-end

into the fjord

with splashes that almost

reach you.

And you’re sure

you’ve seen something,

felt something

like this before—

this place, this splash

that almost reaches you.

Now the cliffs

are the walls of

the flood channel,

the one they never

let you explore,

behind your Catholic

elementary school.

You remember

the one time

you found the courage,

you were sent

to the principal,

and between her hands

and your skin

was a paddle.

Her eyes,

blue stones

that froze you.

The cliffs

are the flood channel

behind your old school,

and the boat

is papier mâché,

made from strips

of yesterday’s newspaper.

Each headline

angular and bold,

announcing the end

of something.

The beginning

of something else.

Now you remember

the boat is on fire,

your eyes singed

and stinging,

the horoscope sail

now burning in half.

It says: You may be tempted—

It says: You will be—

It says: Don’t be afraid—