Iditarod

what happens is something catches
and instead of breaking like a clever weed
it comes compliantly out like a greased wire
after an epoch where everything acted
like an urchin’s spine on a hole punch
whole system walkabout, shedding parts.
it’s not unraveling if it wasn’t woven first.
tangled looks raveled if you’re troubled enough.
sometimes I am the original Iditarod of myself
and hold on through a dog eating solar flare.
other times I shoo away my learnings until
I can’t imagine that my dreams require work
or that other peoples’ do.

ξ

Nathaniel Calhoun lives in the Far North of Aotearoa. He works with teams monitoring and restoring biodiversity in ecosystems around the world. He has published or upcoming work in New York Quarterly, Oxford Poetry, Quadrant, Hawaii Pacific Review, Poetry Aotearoa and others.  Rarely he tweets @calhounpoems