Yet in Bemidji
And for her I translate
my tongue to theirs—
I shouldn’t have another drink;
I have to drive home yet.
But it’s light out yet.
That yet at the end,
a lingering way of saying still,
gets me on the line
like fish being pulled
from under the ice.
Vivid as cells splitting,
expanding
from everything, or a blush
scuttling
across her cheek, the stillness
of winter seeps in
like the diction and syntax
of the locals, holding off
what is to come and what
persists.
And on the way home, red—
a fox in the headlights’
sidelong shine,
head down, hunting
or in supplication.
The yetness of winter, the
stillness of winter
The silent time and yet