Drunken Forest
Do you feel sometimes like the floor here is moving under you
Adela asks
coming back with another bottle of McCormick’s gin
I say no
As the permafrost melts and hardens again
the trees begin to stagger
and lean
I am looking at them now
the angle is like a clock hand pointing at eleven
Two black dogs frolic
a blond child drags a stick
cupid face curly hair
he fits his arms into his puff jacket and runs off
The whole ground slopes steeply
We pour shots of Fernet-Branca
boil spring water for Jameson toddies
Off-trail
the moss under my feet
alternates between soft and crunchy
piles of ptarmigan scat like scentless wood pellets
It is snowing again
the mountains are asleep
my hands fall asleep
the tipsy trees
pass out on their roots
supported on the shoulders of their friends
