Crossing the Wasatch

They tic-a-tac when she talks—

her tinny yellow teeth.

Got Donners in my bloodline

Great Great Dinah

kilt a cousin

in the Wasatch Mountains

tic-a-tic.

Generations later, this Donner still looks hungry—

face like a ferret, plum-pit eyes

tinny yellow teeth

that clack inside the classroom.

Took a cutoff

to the mountains

All the oxen

took a turn for the worse

      tic-tic           

      teeth against a can of cherry coke—

            hooves tic-a-clack against the stones

until the snow comes, sieved

by long blades of brome grass

then everything’s

      pith-a-pith

and winds keep whipping

the wagon flaps agape.

We plug the gaps

but chills keep whisking

            pith-a-pithing

hungry for holes

worming through blankets

            sweaters, linen, burlap

whittling under our skin—

a last bit of tail whips like a noodle

slurped between the lips—

      pith-a-pith-a-pith

at the pit of my stomach,

chewing on what’s left

of the balmy valley sun.