If a Plane Crashed Exactly on the U.S.-Canadian Border, in Which Country Would They Bury the Survivors?
After I crawled away from the wreck
And smolder, I toured the dazed woods
—In circles within circles, I’m sure.
The descent was still in my stopped heart.
I hungered and learned the hard way
Which berries not to eat.
I wintered on brown pine needles
In a hollow in the roots of a black oak
And let my bones knit. It felt
Good, between the spasms of pain,
To be alive. Every morning was its own
Sort of impact, again. In the spring,
A golden doe found me and I remembered
To breathe. What a difference that made.
The trees leafed and the leaves breathed
With me. The doe led me to a clearing
In my own heart. It’s one thing
To be alive, and something more to know it.