Derek White

 

 

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Black Ice Sur

 

©

if

the

sun

would

ever

set

,   we

would

eye-

witness 

the

northern

lights.

As

it

is

the

pale

orb

wanders

in

suspenders

,    diffused

and

scattered

(C)

in

a land

so

swollen

with

lakes ,

the

only

land is

Islands

-patchy

tundra

that

weaves

the

ice

flats

and

snowdrifts

together

, a

sodden

sponge

C-saturated

then

super

-cooled

©

the

diamonds

sleep

in lake

beds

biding

beneath

the

ice

encapsulated

in

Kimberlite

pipes

-volcanic

orgasms

from

the

mantle

that

never

quite

puncture

the

crust

C

“Fuck

it.

We’ll

drill

it”

-says

the

king

of

spades,

despite

the

ambiguity

in the

ramp

corrected

resistivity

plots.

(I

also

over

heard

him

say

once

that

this is

not a

job

for

those

with

loved

ones).

On

Starfish

Lake

we

lay

out

the

wire ,

loop

within

loop

after

loop

within

loop  ,

guided

by a

grid

of

neon-vested

sentries

guarding

each

coordinate

pair

making

absolute

unassuming

points.

( come

late

summer

the

ice

will

thaw

and

the

pickets

will

scatter

and

float

on the

lake

©

stars

in the

  sky )

nothing

definite

nothing

defined

. It’s

a struggle

just

to see

with

a light

that

sheds

no

definition ,

our

senses

deprived

by the

bleak

(C)

white

expanse

-

let

alone

to find

©

diamonds

under

a

frozen

lake

.  We

toil

as the

sun

circles

around

the

horizon

in a

day

that

will

never

end  .

We are

the

eyes

and

ears

that

work

for a

wage

but

that

will

never

see

a

single

diamond. C

the

hands

that

pull

the

purse

strings

will

never

taste

their

own

blood

, as

they

wait

in the

warmth

of the

core

shack-

Never

to

taste

the

Caribou

migrating

in

mass

numbers

like

refugees

and

the

wolves

in a

calculated

pursuit

- What

it

must

be

like

to be

so

hungry

and

cold

, to

drink

the

fresh

steaming

blood

brewed

by

years

of

chewing

lichen

off of

rocks

under

hard-

packed

snow

and

ice .

These

men

can

pull

the

trigger

that

blood-

stains

the

angelic

white

feathers of the

ptarmigan

but

they

can’t

taste

the

need

©

, the

dry

cold

desire.

Blinded

by the

dredging

nets

they

drop

through

holes

in the

ice-

these

are

men

that

hunt

to

kill

and not

to eat,

trying

to see

something

they

will

never

©

be

able

to see

, sucking

the

life

out

of a

buck

as they

bring

it into

their

sights

They

sign

the

checks

that

harden

our

pupils

into ©

magnets

and

harness

the

©-flux

into

numbers

, to

live

like

ghosts

on an

eggshell .  C

A

nail

hangs

on a

string

below

a

bare

light

bulb

that

never

has a

need.

A clock

‘ticks’

off

time

( we

invent

a schedule

in the

absence

of

daily

closure

) the

diesel

trucks

are

kept

running

24

hours

a day

in

fear

that

they

will

never

start

again.

The

rest

of us