A lack of wilderness in the house
guts the nerve of its men.
We decided to go for dessert together.
I’d seen him worried much of my life
but didn’t think it would be so
pronounced when alone with me,
his eldest, in a foreign country
miles from anyone we knew.
‘They’ll think we’re lovers’,
he said as we walked into a place.
in me. A ski resort in summer
is its own sort of ghost.
Skiers are preoccupied
with descent, obstacles, dodge,
the body’s velocity,
shit like that. They would notice
the bump in the middle of my nose
that ties me to his DNA.
Perhaps this is a previous avalanche –
his failure to teach me golf,
trying to train my hips
to hold and relax, to have
the tension and wild
of a landslide. First man to hold my hips,
first man whose hips I’m from.
Dessert was quiet.
I forked through the cap of tiramisu,
he burled his shoulders
and looked so far away, a fallen
skier, whose outline is barely visible
on the slope of a mountain out of season.
ANTOSH WOJCIK is a poet, drummer, sound designer and electronic music producer. He makes tunes as /weirdtoday and is a part of London-based cross-disciplinary arts collective, FWRDMTN.