Kill Villages

Ice which is slow
and snow which is swift
where the dark drift
of the wood grows polar,
sizzle and bite
borealis the night,

telling a thousand
lakes of killer
pigtail feather
forces that roast
game alive -
prime priest and seasoned
trapper torsoes
spitting fat -

telling them that
kill villages
are the nation. But none,
not a feather,
hears swift and slow:

to the bellies of the tribes
of the god that dazzles
the wind over us,
the bite and sizzle’s

* borealis: clouds fanned by the aurora borealis, northern lights, occur along the 49th parallel above the Great Lakes and in Canada’s northern reaches. Long ago, the cannibal tribes of the North-Eastern Woods gave the lights the names of gods, as we did when we saw them.