The doctor says the test is positive
for CSF. He leaves a voice message.
I’m not upset. Finally I have a name
for this ice water I catch in my palm.
It runs down my throat too & captures
prayers before I speak them. I haven’t
made wishes aloud for years. Instead
I’m feeding the moon in my belly.
I've swallowed so many possibilities
the glow almost escapes out my lips.
A big winter moon, fed by the freeze.
Mom asks why I’m relieved the test
is positive. I say I knew in my moon-gut
something was wrong & now I’m waking
to a first snow after months of rain.
Evidence on the ground. Tracks clear
as constellations. The wind rushes in
from the north & grabs at my cheeks.
I take a compass bearing. Turn towards
that pale horizon. I’ll always be grateful
for these first frozen days where the sky
stretches just briefly & the veil lifts
between what is known & unknown
about our world. The test is positive.
Look up, isn’t it glorious how the snow
is coming down in flurries?
Hannah Siden is a writer and filmmaker living on the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh Nations (Vancouver, BC). Her poems have been published in PRISM International, The League of Canadian Poets, Bed Zine and elsewhere.