POEM | Mike Smith
Anchorage I am Bud Whitney blushing with my bride. I am Jack Brown, builder of boats and ferryman across the Knik Arm. This is big water, Cook Inlet, and I am snow-stupid, of a stock built for burrowing, wearing my hat far back on my head. Easy friends, I’ve got only time to kill, talking to a blur. You’ve heard of the dangers of mud flats, of the kindly Dena’ inu. You’ve heard of gold beyond. Truly, it’s there, out far from where I will never send you this. Why else would we have so many words for how it glitters in your eyes?
12 | Raleigh Review
