“Still”
They told me the Matanuska is as old as Rome
and now it’s slipping a foot a day.
Tomorrow, as I drive to see, it’ll still run away from me.
The biggest, oldest thing in the world is dying.
Tired of being stepped on, tired of melting,
and still I’ll catch up to it
and stomp around, taking photos
of its blue insides.
(Just some sad thoughts about the Matanuska Glacier, what with glacial retreat and climate change.)
“Kenny”
His name is Ich Minh Tran and he drives 2 hours
through the Mat-Su Valley to repair my tire.
A wet dog sits in the cabin of his truck.
Call me Kenny he says, nobody can pronounce my name.
(Poem about my Turo car guy, a nice Vietnamese truck driver who lent me his Subaru Crosstrek. The one time I don’t pay for insurance, I get a flat!)
“Cosmic”
The tops of the mountains are covered in mist
Thank God I think
I couldn’t handle it, I’m sure
Their true selves revealed,
Their masks removed,
I already feel small, I’ve already submitted enough
If you show me their faces, I’ll simply scream
(Freaky mountains! Everyone kept saying that you couldn’t see all of them yet and tbh that was a very alarming concept.)
“Mist”
The thick layer of white hangs over
the mountains and doesn’t move an inch.
Not with the rain, not with the wind,
not with the sun
sitting firmly on its shelf for 12 hours straight.
It’s like the mist was always there
and it’s us turning into it.
Don’t hold your breath,
you’ll never make it
(More eerie thoughts of Alaska. Really can’t overstate how menacing it can feel if you’re in the wrong headspace - which I frequently am.)
“Fred Meyer in Alaska”
A grocery store in another state -
some new brands shimmer but it’s mostly the same:
North Pole Coffee next to Folgers
Denali Beer next to Bud
An Inuit mother corrals her kids who
hang from the cart and lunge for cereal.
It was raining bad outside when I ran in from the parking lot
a greeter with a moose pin welcomed me
wow, I thought, I’m really here.
(I kinda hate how I fall into the same 1,2,3, rhythm when I write poems but I’m not much of a poet, so I won’t be too hard on myself.)
"Cabin Mix Up”
Remember when we got the wrong cabins for your friends’ wedding? They said Hatcher Pass Lodge but you booked Hatcher Pass Cabins. The groom said the red huts were quaint and historic and we looked at him quizzically, like he was being sarcastic. Like hut was a funny word for hovel and the word quaint was a bit.
That night I made the best of it and read Stephen King on the stinking porch. 10 million vistas in Alaska and our view outside was the 24/7 Laundry & Shower. I drank beer from the midnight brewery, and I came in to see vista 10 million and one:
You in bed, already dozing, your dress on the hanger, readying for tomorrow’s sun.
(Don’t worry, we ended up finding the correct Hatcher Pass LODGE. And yes, it’s pretty remarkable. Hatcher Pass CABINS… not so much. Cozy bed though.)
Just some random journal thoughts:
It was not my desire to be scared in Alaska, it just happened. The warehouse churches of Wasilla eek me out, and the ATVs of Palmer make me nervous. The tent towns of Anchorage are depressing, and the truckers of Glacier View give me anxiety. They’re making meth by the Valley Cinema and they’re dealing it in the showers. Bullet holes everywhere. Rifle casings glimmer on the bed of a river. Next to it is a dead fish, a dead fire, a tire jack.
And all of this is in the day light, btw.
The sun hasn’t set all summer like it’s too afraid to close its eyes.
(A coffee related side note: they’re tons of espresso huts all over the place, tiny little houses with blinking espresso signs. I did some googling and apparently (at least among Alaskans) they’re renowned for their coffee game
? Interestingly, I did have a breve down there in Anchorage by the 49th State brewing and then I got another… and another… and dammit, yeah, pretty good stuff!)