The Glacier
Issue Three
Winter 2024

A Woman Is Sleeping in the Forest

A woman is sleeping on fallen pine needles.
A woman is sleeping on pine needles soft as suede.
A woman is sleeping under an oak, beside a patch of brambles.
She sleeps curled on her side, her hands clasped under her ear.
She sleeps with bent knees. She sleeps with bare feet.
Beneath her closed lids, her eyes dart like rabbits.
A woman is sleeping and breathing as quietly as if she were not breathing.
A woman is sleeping in a quiet forest.

In a quiet forest, a woman dreams of white deer nuzzling her throat.
A woman dreams that four fox kits sniff her hair.
Four fox kits and one stray coyote circle her sleeping form.
When dry leaves crackle, she dreams of fire.
When dry leaves crackle, she dreams of warming her hands above a fire.
A woman is dreaming of color—orange, white, brown, gold.

A woman is sleeping in the forest.
A woman is sleeping and sleeping and sleeping.
She is not waiting to be wakened.
She is sleeping quietly in a quiet forest.

A woman is dreaming, and her dream is complete.
A woman is sleeping, and she is complete.
A woman is sleeping, and each of her quiet breaths is complete.

White deer surround a sleeping woman.
White deer circle a bramble patch.
Oak leaves crackle beneath a white deer’s hoof.
A deer’s hoof sinks into pine needles and moss.
A deer enters the forest’s shadow and emerges into rings of sunlight.
As evening drifts into the clearing, sunlight drips from a white deer’s ribs, from its haunch.
A woman is dreaming of sunlight, how it falls like beads, like scented oil.

A woman is sleeping in a clearing in a forest.
A white deer lies down beside a sleeping woman.
A white deer is listening for the scurry of mice, the creep of beetles, a solitary owl’s whoosh.
A woman is sleeping and listening for the speech of every animal she’s ever seen.
A woman is sleeping and listening for the speech of every animal she’s never seen.
A woman is sleeping in the forest.

Gandhi is everywhere,

I thought, lost
in Rio’s Centro district. A vendor
hawking snacks blocked 
my view, until, stepping into the street, I saw
his wire-rimmed eyeglasses, bare arms,
his disproportionately large
sandled feet, this black statue
twice as tall as he ever was. The high sun
flattened his features. 
I wanted to touch him, it, the smooth black
stone formed into his image. 

A boy’s Portuguese confused me, something
about water, something about thank you.
Taxis loitered behind buses. The familiar body 
emerged from their exhaust,  
walking toward the sea
or toward Parliament
or toward his assassin. Later,

I opened a map and saw
his name there among metro stops,
the Lapa steps, the Cathedral of St. Sebastian. I found
my way back to my hotel, then home again
to English, flat accents,
potable water, cold winters,
our fear of brown men
teaching peace.

Buoyancy

The lead elephant
serpentines its trunk
like a school of trout, lifts it, curling it
back across its head and sprays
the calf that has stepped
clumsily and gingerly across rocks
into the river, and the calf
shakes its head, rests its own trunk
in the water, watching it drift away,
back, away, as if to teach its entire body
how easy it is, this buoyancy.

A Woolly Mammoth’s Last Dream


Tomorrow he could lumber
from forest to stream, gaze upon his reflection
embellished by ripples, glinting fish, mossy rocks. Tomorrow
he could pray again for a mate or even
a friend, someone who understood curved
tusks, weighted loneliness, so many
pounds of baggy flesh. He could hear
leaves rustle together almost
like someone singing, some creature
who would recognize his rolling brow
without bewilderment or disgust or a single
prickle of nostalgia.

Lynn Domina is the author of several books, including three collections of poetry: Inland Sea, Framed in Silence, and Corporal Works. Her recent work appears in Moon City Review, Lake Effect, Barrow Street, and many other periodicals and anthologies. She teaches English at Northern Michigan University and lives in Marquette, Michigan, along the beautiful shores of Lake Superior. Read more here: www.lynndomina.com

BACK

ISSUE tHREE HOME