The Winter of 1846-7 by Iris Jamahl Dunkle

There is a hole in the narrative, dear
reader. One we’ve chosen to accept. Take,
for example, discussions of instinct
which inevitably will lead to the
Donner Party, that is if you teach out
West. Is the part of your brain that kicks in
when you’re starved, trapped in a fortress of snow
on the steep stone lip of the Sierras
reptile or fish? Meaning, will you do what-
ever it takes to survive or just lie
down in a deep snowy drift to let go—

The question is like a black hole: a place
that eats itself. If you are left in a
cabin with nothing to eat you consume
everything: ox hide roof, rawhide saddle,
handfuls of cold dirt until your mind slows
like a distant star. Some days, I’m starved as
that child left alone as the snow drifts up
trying to erase me. Some days, I’m in
the party with those who tried to escape.
Thirty-three days they walked, and snow fell on
their story. Starved, snow-blind, only a few
found their way out into the history we’ve
written down. Who will I be on the other
side of this terrible winter? Will there
be a thaw? What sort of wildflowers will
bloom out: Yellow Monkey Flowers or
the elegance of Shasta Lilies and with
all that beauty how will I remember
the deep snowy path that got me here?

Iris Jamahl Dunkle was the 2017-2018 Poet Laureate of Sonoma County, CA. Her poetry collections include Interrupted Geographies (2017), There’s a Ghost in this Machine of Air (2015) and Gold Passage (2013). Dunkle teaches at Napa Valley College and is the Poetry Director of the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference.