I should leave my life.
I know that now.
Let me put something aside
old fears, other things
I have stayed too long.
If a man passed through town headed north,
I’d go with him.
I wouldn’t ask his story—
I’d let the cold tell it later.
In my kitchen the air is too warm,
the walls too familiar.
Even my hands feel wrong,
like they forgot who they were making signs for.
I imagine myself standing in some quiet white,
no maps
My wife asks why Alaska.
I say, Because I need to.
She says, Then fly.
She doesn’t understand
that it’s not the distance—
it’s the leaving.
Outside, the sky is full of clouds
that aren’t anything like northern ones
I should go now.
I’ll go tomorrow.
If I’m lucky,
someone else will be going that way.
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