Sarah Day, Poet


Magnetic north is always on the move,
looping its slow deep subterranean loops
around true north which it eludes
like an errant partner in an Arctic dance. Whoops –
gliding now at forty k per year from Canada
towards Siberia like a planchette on a Ouija –
anyone would think these shifts might derange
a home-bound salmon and rearrange
the map for pigeon, turtle, snow goose
or the coded alphabet inside the honey bee
dance; it all seems set to confuse
but fails. Blood hears more than its own euphony
as the sliding behemoth in fits and starts
quietly adjusts our compasses, our hearts.