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2013 poetry chapbook How a Bullet
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Stagnant
Cara Losier Chanoine
I hear them every March,
the disembodied voices
of the places I’ve never been.
They descend like a mosquito swarm,
the itch of their stings insatiable.
America is a wasteland.
Each year we eat more
and move less,
turn the volume up
to drown out the warning.
We are succumbing to a sickness,
and I am not immune,but
I am not oblivious
either.
In the stagnant July heat,
time is a limitless mirage.
Summer is seductive
with the illusion
of eternal youth.
Only at the mouth of winter
do I begin to feel my bones,
count the steps that I have taken.
This time,
when the rivers and lakes
crack free of ice,
I will not remain
only to be bitten by
the ghosts of old desires.
When they call on me,
this time they will not move on
alone.