Ice and Rock

I was born on an island of rocks,
some jutting out of the sea,
some emerging from a bed of purple flowers
on the edge of a rocky cove.

I was born on an island of rocks,
some jagged and joking like jackals
in the early morning frost
as they trudged off to the ice to skin seals
in their most ragged clothes,
returning in the soft air with candy for the young
and blood soaking into their skin.

I was born on an island of rocks,
some rough like women with calloused hands
mending the flakes, laughing at the melting snow
while their children jump the ice pans,
proving their worth to each other,
returning in the chilly air ringing their clothes
to eat under the light of a kerosene lamp.

I was born,
kicking and screaming,
on an island of rocks,
where the ice flows fill the sea.