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It has no name, this flower, this bird, this mountain we pray to, the trail to the summit where we’ll hang a flag. No name. The cats will leave tracks, the ghost ones, dogs too. Wolf or leopard. A friend, Tibetan, takes us to a lake, iced over. There we hang our flags on an auspicious day. Burn the incense he takes out of a bag with his large hands. He offers some to me and tells me what to call it. But we don’t speak the same language. Kanchenjunga. Say it again. I kneel because this is how I’ve been taught to pray. I pray for the whole world. I do this again in another life. In my backyard, twelve years later, a full moon, winter solstice, we make a little fire. I’ve kept the same plant he burned and gave me all this time. When we hang the flags, I want to have more faith in the wind to send the words to God, to the hearts of politicians, to the hearts of human hands, to the ocean, to the center of the earth. Here, this breath, a bird that dives and dives and dives.
Laura Stott is the author of three poetry collections, most recently, The Bear's Mouth (Lynx House Press, 2024). She also teaches, poetry, creative writing, and poetry + printmaking at Weber State University.
Artwork by Hilma af Klint.