The stones amid the rocks
form a pattern we promptly
discern—Inuksuk, conveying
human without a visage,
from meticulous, Inuit hands:
a marker on a route,
a site of veneration,
a place to catch some fish
when we are hungry.
This beach is crowded over every summer,
and the stones are just as plentiful
as the sand. Tomorrow, the Inuksuit
may be many, the art of imitation,
Caucasian appropriation,
or the one that’s been here days?
Dismantled, caught up in a wave
whenever the gales are temperamental,
or the consequence of a child,
ambling along the shore,
seeking ujarak flat and smooth,
for skipping on the rippled sheen,
who took to playing Jenga under the sun,
wary over dislodging from the middle,
the kerplunking of a game that went awry,
one set of naked footprints
fleeing trespass, its shame
and culpability,
to be expunged upon remorse,
the soddening of eyes,
this water’s absolution
once the wind has finished its rage.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp