Emma Gammans


a whale’s upturned belly, a thumb, the big dipper
gather at the moon’s waist. stars like shimmering breasts,
little nipples, harden at the blue band of a sapphire sky.
trees ride over the edge of mount tolmie, curl their arms
around my shadow and touch me.
my flashlight speaks to the winding path ahead, speaks
to the gravel in slow movement; when i turn ‘round
my hand has become the size of a large boulder,
the size of the snow ball i rolled in grade three
when the snow came down like a dream.

i jump at the creature, at the transmuted hand,
at the five fingers birthed through a canal
of light and twisted into darkness.
i curl them into the head of a wolf, watch the shadow
lick at the pale green moss.
i want to howl at the moon
i want to bow to the night and say: i am yours, spill into me
the moon is a heavy breath, a sex crazed eye, a womb.
i undress the case to my harmonica
blow and draw, draw, draw, lungs empty,