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.

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