January 12, 2020

Beckon by Kersten Christianson

Because I burn for sun,
orange calcite perches
on the windowsill.
Kamikaze raven
unsettles a cedar bough,
landslides a spill

of pillowed snow
on a fresh-plowed trail. 
If I could bridge the gap
between glass and sky,
I’d call the sun as if a dog,
my voice a harmonica.

Sol would tilt his head,
freeway his bounding
body to heel at my side
before walking through
the door at day’s end
for a hot bowl of chili.





Kersten Christianson is a raven-watching, moon-gazing, high school English-teaching Alaskan.  She serves as poetry editor of the quarterly journal Alaska Women Speak. Her latest collection of poetry, Curating the House of Nostalgia, will publish in 2020 (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions).  Kersten holds an MFA from the University of Alaska.

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