by Helen Dring

He chose her for the way she could,

Eyes closed, nose to the air,

Find her way North.

North was where the wind stopped

And held them in its grip, safe. Broken.

He chose her for the way, fur against

Her collar, she could coax seal cubs

From the ice, fry them without

Gagging. And for the way she held

Her knife against the rock to sharpen it,

More than for her kisses, moist and

Sour against his half frozen lips.