The New Age

by Ingrid Leonard

It feels good to have a room with no smoke
when the wind is up and cold nips at bones
like a vexed crab. They came from a land
beyond the sun, who built this chamber,
in supple boats. We draped their bodies
in buttery leather, portioned their bowls
with beef and oysters. A few of us went
with them; those long in years raised eyes
skyward, yawped misgivings at the in-brought
air that blew about cattle-pen and lintel
and didn’t settle with their withdrawing.
The rest of us went with our kin through
a dim passage to sweat, steam and sleep
with flushed collarbones, a deep-limbed
restfulness as stones whelmed in pools
with a scalded hiss. The water we drank
in the morning tasted cold, sweet.