Issue 7 – Going1

Jo Going

The White Caribou

In my prayers
she comes,
and comes again,

the White One,
whom they speak of
in whispers.

Alone one day
I saw her
running with the herd
calligraphy of antler,
waving the muskeg,
collapsing distance.

Pausing, she stared—
was I fireweed,
…or daughter?

And I too stared—
was she flesh
…or spirit?

Then the silvered bull,
antlers reaching
to hold the sky,
mounted and nipped her ivory neck,
and shivering, she turned
to follow,

leaving me kneeling,
alone on the tundra,
wild and feral,

her heart drawn tracks,
her clicking hooves,
deep in my womb.