Guest Poem by Lori Drummond-Mundal

Lori Drummond-Mundal lives in Stavanger, Norway with her husband, having made the move 150 degrees east from her roots in Alaska nearly 30 years ago. Her poetry has appeared in Orbis, Despite Knowing - an anthology of poems on addiction edited by Veronica Aaronson (Fore Street Press, 2021) and is forthcoming in Dawntreader. She is currently working on a collection of poems and stories woven from memory and imagination.

Lori Drummond-Mundal

Photo 1964

November birthdays are dark in the North,
untouched by the light of four thin candles

on a snow-white cake. Her harsh words hit
as if honed through generations, your face

ironed flat by the scolding’s scarlet slap.
You stare into the corner, as if watching

your delight stream down the slatted vents.
Curtains drawn against imposing night

shut out bright birch, our woodland allies.
If I could, I would take on muscles and cape,

leap to your rescue, but the best shield
I can supply is the happy-family-smile,

while you disappear behind wary owl’s eyes.
Fly, little sister.