Tell me about risk.
About walking through thunder,
loving too hard,
throwing yourself at crowds.
What does safety matter?
Your grandmothers crossed great rivers.
They carried babies, cooking pots,
the seeds of gardens left behind.
Your grandfathers hunted over the Bering bridge,
mammoth and caribou, bone and hide,
tent and carcass and drum.
What do you have to lose?
Everything is too easy,
isn’t it? Those thigh muscles,
the little almond in your brain
that makes you afraid
all wasted on your flowers,
your freezer full of meat.
Even death. Even that.
It isn’t supposed to be double spaced. Sorry about that.