Bryan Schutmaat
Monday, 8 December 2025
Work from Islands of the Blest.
“I’ll come back to you
in the hour of basalt and copper,
back like floodwater pressing its
shoulder against the ribs of the valley.
When I rub bear fat into my boots
a star disappears and the bones in my hand
become a set of gears
bringing electricity to this canyon
of burnt oil and jagged creeks.
When I say your name
the meridian goes bright
as the bit in a blind horse’s mouth.
When I say your name
a bucket of sparks empties into the river
and the night sky is streaked through
with charred snags and shale.
Each night a new ghost
lays out a single crosstie
and a farrier’s hammer
falls through the well shaft of my dream.
I am all steam polish and cable hum,
all snowdrifts clinging
to the north side of the ridge.
I turn coal into motion.
I lie flat on my stomach and drink
from the runoff like a mountain boomer.
I look into a wall of flame
and hear the songs of a trestle.
A buzzard throws down
the ace of spades
and I run a grease bead
across the axle of the moon
and make it spin.
The horizon opens its mouth
and strikes a match against its dry tooth
and I write this letter for you
and sew it into a pantcuff made of smoke
from these islands of the blest.”