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  You could have a big dipper   


The day your mother spoke you into existence

(or at least a stick to pee on), I dreamed about Fargo,

not the city—who’s even been there?—but the movie.

Your footprints cracked the earth’s white shell,

and I heard the sweep of epic chords

in the Nilfheim’s terrible and crushing wind.

I watched that postage stamp of a small bird

fighting the Jotun frost with beak and talon:

I thought—that’s you from here on out—

that’s what we made (a feathery secret)

the night we didn’t watch Fargo, when

we did not suffer death by wood chipper,

but melted as if licked from blue ice

by a giant blue cow—Babe,

we made spaghetti that night and

drank too much wine. We tossed wet

noodles against the ceiling, hoping

they might stick:

That was the first flutter of winged flight—

when we dreamed beyond the briny brim

of boiling water and were lit on fire

by the world to come.


Bryan Harvey's writing has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Bull, Nurture, Hobart and HAD, No Contact Magazine, Heavy Feather Review, and elsewhere. He tweets about basketball, books, and teaching @Bryan_S_Harvey. Any current typos are the result of postseason baseball.

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