Children of the North
Ted Mico
Something is wrong with our snow.
Its drift suffocates the house. Crowds us out.
At Christmas we get drunk and Jesus-ready
heading North, traffic lights a festive blur.
We get sloppy. We wrap the car
around a lamppost. Get bandaged
craving North’s white isolation,
its skin-peeling blizzards that erase
our mistakes. Up there unknown
compass needles spin the bedroom.
I explore your face. Search
for a frozen mother in you.
I put that face in my pocket
next to the compass, hope measurements
aren’t off. You buy a different car.
We held together when True
and Magnetic Norths were indivisible –
one letter N stood for discovery. Now
driven apart. There’s something wrong
with our North. And two Ns
are not better than. Like a thought
that’s never seen direct sunlight
I tell you I want kids. To see their faces
light up under Christmas trees,
explore a thousand Norths of their own.
You buy a different compass.
Draw circles around yourself
to keep your secrets safe.
You pretend to be asleep.
I use your compass to poke holes
in the condoms we keep
in the bedside drawer
for special occasions.
I pretend to be asleep
when you jab the compass
through our duvet shagged with ice.
Cold streams through, releasing
a cloud of feathers and I name them
sons and daughters in every direction.
Note: At a speed of 40 miles per annum, the Magnetic North Pole has moved beyond the Canadian Arctic territorial and is 1,200 miles away from True North.
Ted Mico began his career in London as a writer and editor at the seminal weekly music paper Melody Maker. His work have appeared in The Guardian, Time Out, Huffington Post, Forbes, and Spin, while his poetry has featured in Cordite Review, Slipstream, Sein Und Werden, Arboreal, Pure Slush, Okay Donkey, Cesura and more. He’s edited three books of non-fiction and is a regular attendee at the legendary Beyond Baroque poetry workshop in Venice, California.
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