it seems all there’s ever been is Chukchi Sea ice
and enough of us to drill holes in it, fish through it,
We forgotten ones, born
cold, in the days of night,
suckling fire, weaned onto moonshine
in our fathers’ fishing huts.
We who at two raised our first glass
to the poor bastards who would never
be us one day, those caught out
All of us waiting
to understand the holes in the ice
and the cold ones under the frozen sea,
waiting to be the fish, the fire,
the water under everything.