Carve me remembrance in a block of ice: wood waiting for the splinter, iron-girdled against the press of ice walls of boxes printed back into spam, peaches, promises of warmth and blossom-scent left so far north. Light through a window ever without cobwebs slow-flowered into silver - silver crystallised to mildew-flowers, framing up all reminders of sails against the snow lost now to penguins and aurora-glow. cold-crisp and lanolin, paper and sacking. Seal-stink a century old, horse-hair matted into grit under the unconcerned waddle of a penguin, remarking on no past exploratory hopes: only welcoming the wind's lee.
Born in the year of Halley’s Comet, Michele Bannister spends her days chasing yesterday’s light. She currently lives in British Columbia. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Stone Telling, Goblin Fruit, and other venues, and in the Here, We Cross anthology (2012).