Solstice or Something

by Laura Passin

My friends the pagan farmers

use no electric light from December 1st

until solstice—they honor darkness,

its deepening hold. They know how

to butcher an animal, even one

with a name, because it has served

its purpose on earth. I tell them

that when it all goes to hell,

I’m making my way to them

to ride out the end of days.

No really, I can be useful

with more than words:

I can knit, I can keep

small things warm.

*

If you could move as fast as light,

time would stand still

around you.

Light has no future,

only a past.

*

Every year I am supposed to believe

that something comes back,

that December is a dark womb

from which we are all reborn.

That is what Jesus is,

what Persephone is.

Every day, a nuzzle of light.

I don’t buy it.

When something dies

and comes back

we mostly call that

a monster.

*

This year, it didn’t snow all fall

so we have to water the wintering plants.

Otherwise they will die underneath

while they seem to die above.

*

This time last year my cat was dying,

and this time the year before that

my other cat was dying,

and now I think my dog

is probably dying

when I have the courage

to look death straight

in its toothless little face.

*

This burning planet:

oh, we have killed you.

It’s only fair you take us too.

---

Laura Passin is the author of Borrowing Your Body (Riot in Your Throat) and All Sex and No Story (Rabbit Catastrophe Press). She earned her PhD in English Literature at Northwestern and her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Oregon. Her writing has appeared in a wide range of publications, including Prairie Schooner, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Toast, Rolling Stone, Electric Literature, and Best New Poets. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart prize and Best of the Net anthology. Laura lives in Denver with too many pets.