A new poem by Mikaela Nyman.

Moon Dogs

Your words chafe days weeks months

into a blur. Squinting

brings petty relief. See pinpricks of light

long lost turn

into myriad of tiny chevrons

all pointing at this extraterrestrially

lonely human squatting

between goal posts on an abandoned

frosty rugby field

Not even the moon dogs give a howl

Mirroring the polished bone disc

in their midst, two sentries right and left

pale and reflect, conjure light, mock—

always on guard

*

A world away in Helsinki: a long overdue

book slides down the chute of Ode library,

Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Refugees

due on Boxing Day 1939

Where has it been? Who

handed it in?

That’s when

my grandfather pulled out

his skis, shaved his head, oiled his gun

a month into the Soviet Union’s invasion

That’s when

chained hounds learned to growl,

child-sized sentinels were sent abroad,

exhausted families piled their broken

faces one upon another

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