Monday, September 18, 2023



When White Hawks Come

I dreamt the spirit of the codfish:

in rafters of the mind;

fly out into the winter's blue night;

mirth off alder tendrils sashay;

while I set up my winter tent;

four panels long—beams suspend

blubber strips aged in a poke seal bag;

a bluejay lands on the windowsill wing feathers —

shadowing the sun as a new moon; as blue, lapis

icicle time melts—when white hawks come.


dg nanouk okpik

blood snow

Wave Books, 2022