Lisa Morin Carcia’s poems have appeared in Talking River Review, North American Review, Connecticut Review, Floating Bridge Review, Alimentum, and elsewhere. When she’s not writing poetry, she works in the digital financial services field. She lives near Seattle, Washington.
In the abyssal zone of sleep, pressure like a weighted blanket
holds me close. Better off boneless, capable of full-body flow.
Better off eyeless, traveling by feel, by current, by smell,
the oldest sense we have. Big hungry cerebral cortex,
hush. Body, be an invertebrate swimmer, all touch and pulse—
resisting nothing, dancing solo in the ecstatic darkness.
We dance with drought. We love
the sun but underneath we sense
the lack. We live and die
by snowpack. Stubble
showing through a dusting
at the summit in December stokes
a subtle panic. We climb the pass
at dawn and hope the chill
portends. We see our breath
but not the spell we hope
to cast. No word
nor snow descends.