print previewback KATE PARTRIDGE
Chatter
After winter, quiet except for logs settling
in the fire, the men begin to pick their way
up the ice roads, now mud, now earth again.
Occasionally with money, but usually
with need—the next closest fish
camp at least two days’ walk, although
that family claims the edge of the world.
Siduri has thought of a sign—something to carve
your name in—but settles for allowing travelers
to wedge coins between the planks of the ceiling,
a memento before their crossings.
Glinting, one man asks: How much
do you think is up there? Not enough
to get me to hell and back, she replies. 
Chatter
Drunk Again
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