Photography by Maria Kazvan | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Flickr
He tells me he wants to see Alaska.
Later, when his body is ravaged by mosquitos
I make salves of beeswax and spruce pitch,
later still, when snow carries the weight of its own being
I explain that in this country
warmth is a luxury. It has to be earned.
He does not want this Alaska
but this is the only Alaska I know.
The ice on the river is the thickest it’s been in years.
Meanwhile, his blue hands, my red thighs.
This heart ringed by frostbite.