The shape of the ghost the loon sang into me 

was queer, I didn’t recognize its form. 

I tend to know how sharp or damp or warm 

each everyday anxiety will be— 

but I’d never heard a loon. I’m too far south,

where waters don’t grow cold enough to bring

new children to the light. Up north, loons sing 

a terror of a yodel, my own mouth 

now clamping shut to lock its horror out. 

What ghost is this, who is not trying to say 

I’m small, or not enough, or in the way?

How can I give it room, when dry self-doubt

feels safe as my home state, my land-locked pen? 

What would I lose to hear the loon again?

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