Walking into wind, I lean into my mother’s muskrat coat;
around the cuffs her wristbones have worn away the fur.
If we stood still we’d disappear. There’s no up or down,
no houses with their windows lit. The only noise is wind
and what’s inside us. When we get home my father
will be there or not. No one ever looks for us.
I could lie down and stay right here where snow is all
that happens, and silence isn’t loneliness just cold
not talking. My mother tugs at me and won’t let go.
Then stops to find her bearings. In our hoods of stars
we don’t know if anyone will understand
the tongue we speak, so far we are from home.