Flocks follow
buffeting us with their wind.
All around beat the wings of murmuration:
Petrels
Gulls
Ptarmigans
Owls
Fulmars.

My shape-changing husband leads them.

Ataata paddles faster,
but the quicker he goes,
the worse the waves grow.
White-winged waves crash into qajaq.
My bird husband has made his choice.
Soon too shall Ataata.

Crows
Terns
Geese
Ravens
and eider ducks all swoop.

Beaks and bills snap at our eyes,
Talons and toenails claw at our flesh,
wings beat together and create rough waves.
I cling to the qajaq.
Only this thin shell separates Ataata and me from Adlivun.

He hauls me like he would a dead caribou,
and though I bite, I won’t win this fight.
He flings me into the frigid sea
And I will not go. Not willingly.
Then waves spread wide to take me.
I scrabble for the edge of the qajaq,
while the freezing water burns like qulliq wick.
I cling to the gunwales.

He apologises
as he pulverises
my fingers

one
at
a
time.

I will not let go.

I will not let

I will not

I go
without fingers,
phalanges fall.
Blood flows in runnels.
The water pinks and as I sink,
the birds fly away.

I slip into my own birthwater.