Caribou
Dream of climbing a hill and snapping my bra straps like suspenders:
this day is ours—the heat burning a tan line into my back,
you lick a puddle against my clavicle; I wake up and have bled through
my sheets. How clearly I have acted toward the purpose of leaving;
I don’t buy furniture and I sublet my sleep cycle. If I hold this hand
will I blink and arrive at the nexus of impossibly intimate and fallow,
a grass stained knee or a walkway of camellia or a metallic turn
in the lens I’m seen, a reflection of lightness: despair pocketed away
with fucking’s serotonin grip. Perched on riverbank rocks I dipped my face
into the glacial runoff, a herd of caribou moving into the forest,
and you refused a kiss and even if you don’t remember,
can you tell me: what’s an obvious reason why our walks distract me
when I have another man’s feet in my lap and four beers in my belly?
In a moment I’ll be self-conscious about his mirrored closet doors
my dry mouth and the fear that each body I confront enters my own.
I rode BART to live through winter as undead, a bloom of references
and green concern. The coastline a vortex I saw coming, like a man who fills
a doorway. When it’s sunny we truly have the time of our lives. What we saw
were elk, by the way, just so you know, caribou are incredibly rare.
Caribou is out of print from The Blasted Tree Store
Featured by The Blasted Tree: October 17, 2022
Allison LaSorda
Contributing Author
Caribou by Allison LaSorda is a Blasted Tree original poem
Edition of 60 leaflets published in Canada