I wanted to throw my arms around the thick white neck of my brother’s polar bear and cry I’m glad that you are safe from the endless water. I wanted it to nose me, too. I wanted my palm against the fur, and the warm skin beneath. I wanted to see our bones. I wanted to know they were strong. I wanted to be unafraid of being swallowed—by the bear, or the blue night, or the holes in the weft of the world. I wanted the water to move. I wanted lapping. I wanted to hear bees in the arctic quiet. I wanted wolves. I wanted anything but that cerulean muteness, pressing and pressing. I wanted to make noise. To produce birdsong. I wanted a heart-red cardinal to fly from my throat, screaming. I wanted to keep my brother in my hands. I wanted the bear to soften and curl into the snow. I wanted slumber. I wanted my brother to sprawl on the back of his bear and point to the constellations. I wanted them to stay. I wanted to not be suddenly alone in the silent twilight that was all that was left of the world. I wanted to chase them over the crest of the pale blue hill. I wanted to be untroubled. I wanted to gather their footprints and hold them, weeping. I wanted my chest to feel unbruised.
