a calf born in winter
by Lucas Nydam
after song of the same title by Khruangbin
it is only hindsight who teaches us which
icicles not to eat— which happens to be
most of them. it’s pure bewilderment and
disgust on our faces when the ones
hanging off car fenders taste like cars
and in trying to figure out how cars
have a taste and why we know that taste.
must admit i was nervous when i plucked you
because i don’t relate to most people because i don’t
care for television unless i’m watching it from the
sidewalk outside a stranger’s house thinking about
who they are and why they’re sitting there and how
they got such ornate lamps and which cereals they
might eat and whether or not it would be the kind
with raisins in it. that’s a cheap date but too cold
so how about mine? we can lose ourselves in
green tea and laconics and
pay tithe to the water heater
because this building is as old as
my soul but still bathes us in steam.
bodies drip wax with each
footstep from the shower
and shiver naked, wet, like calves
born in winter— made of nothing
but knocking knees and dull wonder
and bulging snow globe eyes pulling
the old world into a new sense of self.
we are surely less cosmic— but maybe
no less beautiful: two icicles hanging
out— mustering the courage to call for
blankets or the bravery to shiver
against the bed frame all night.
Lucas Nydam is a poet among other things in Bellingham, WA. He has had poetry published in The Crossing Guide and The Noisy Water Review, and was featured in the 2015 MTV documentary “White People.” A Whatcom county native and recent graduate of Whatcom Community College, Lucas plans to continue his education in the Fall and further pursue his passion for literature, community building, and social justice. When not writing, Lucas can be found wearing red velvet slippers and snapping his fingers enthusiastically.