drown my heart off the long-frozen shore
of the freshwater legend that swallows all pride.
a thousand years hence you will still see it clearly
in water so big that it has its own tides.

bury my heart in the pine-needled hush
in that sun-dappled shade where the wendigo sleeps.
in soft silent halls it may sprout once again,
and render its fruit, wet with blood, good to eat.

hang up my heart on the whisky-jack’s perch
while white robed sentinels hold congress above
the winds of their speech will freeze it like suet–
to be thawed by the sun’s unconditional love.