Christien Gholson



1. Vernal Equinox

	        Snow flies, white-blind. Wild 
		 spruce branch channels razor-
	crystals around, through: A word 
       buried, un-covered, re-buried. I keep
			      forgetting. I keep - 
		          footsteps found. My own 
	refugee is out there, arms spread, head 
		tilted west. Not a ghost, no ghost,
        but dawn and spring rising 
		out of a snow-lashed dark.

2. Summer Solstice

	         Dust rises to meet

 	      of grey rain. So few 
		      drops.        Cool 

         shade in the cracks. We cannot 
			     reach her. 

	This heat. This day. Soon 
		          she will be running 

	 toward her dead mother. Open arms.
			             I wish her 
		      open arms. 

3. Autumnal Equinox

	   What is this death 
		we talk about: Webs
         between exposed roots; tinny clank
		    of a dog chain; leaves
	                with their brilliant 

	     Run your fingers 
	                  over this stone:    Fish. 
	  Fish ribs, fins. Frottage
                                                     of your birth.

4. Winter Solstice

	         a clay bison  in the blood. Swollen eye,
	 rust-bodied mice with wings. A few cars, clouds 
	                                                        flee east. 

	           The Sun-Swallower smiles. Paths branch, 
	branch again, ochre-daubed. Cold 
			            candle-shadows; red-graffiti 
		on the inside-thigh: "Who

      will we be when the lights go out?" A plea, a prayer.
	         I believe in the long night, beast-curled 
			                                into you. I believe 
	         in the long night. No arrow
			               can ever  find it. 

							Santa Fe, New Mexico