Stellar Crystals
Sam Moe is the first-place winner of Invisible City’s Blurred Genres contest in 2022, and the 2021 recipient of an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. Her first chapbook, “Heart Weeds,” is out from Alien Buddha Press and her second chapbook, “Grief Birds,” is forthcoming from Bullshit Lit in April 2023. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @SamAnneMoe.
We leave at dawn to gather frosty blue melons
of ice from the stream, your knife makes a click
as it brushes against the frozen lake, please
I want to beg my heart to preserve this memory
tuck it somewhere safe, perhaps beneath a lip
on the old mason jar, maybe slip her inside
the edges of a honeycomb, we’ll be safer when
the storm has passed, but I wonder if we’ll last
when the wind picks up and carries away center
of the roof and the lawn, even now, sleeping sky
and frozen fish, she is writing wishes on slips
of paper and sealing them under rocks, thawing
is out of the question, even though I’m not strong
enough to carry the water back to the wells, she
might slip ahead of me and I’d be forced to choose
between carrying her against my shoulder or
letting her make it alone, grasping for sticky
tree bark, anything that might act as an anchor
or perhaps she’s bold, let go of the dagger, we
could hold hands, I try not to think of clumsy
fingers intertwining, I keep my focus on the deer
walking gently across an azure slope, crunching
of clear grass beneath hooves, why didn’t we
bring the radio, would you sing to help my nerves
would you believe I’m still behind you even if
you can’t hear my soft snow steps, do you trust me
enough to lead the way, no, and maybe this is
the last December in the cabin, we’ll melt clay
statues in the wood stove, I’ll cover the paintings
with sheets, our origin story will be smoothed
there, there, lead your hand across the crack in
the floor, fill the marble with heated grease, blood
oranges we saved, let’s toss them to the howling
wolves who crave, just as I do, some validation
are you still there, I’m still following you, but
please return my call, even in this early sun I see
their grey shapes making movement toward her
the doe is not scared, she is eating, muttering
frost between her teeth, the winter won’t mean
much if you leave but I would still recognize
your favorite constellation, even in all that haze
and smoke, you might be in the back, chipping away
the bed into a ball of confetti, dig up the bones
from the compost heap, pray for the turkey before
you toss her remains, cross your heart and your
lungs, cross your fingers with mine, I fumble
with my steps, lose my keys in the bucket, powder
is powerful when slippery, I remember you
always liked when the freeze didn’t stick, stuck
your tongue out to collect once-safe snowflakes
and raindrops, but who will protect my heart
if you’re gone, and what will I do with the kitchen
when I rise alone in my own blue-grey dawn, day’s
risky and no one understands my hunger but you.
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