Tonight's Poet Corner: Tracks

Tracks
by Belinda Roddie

He lights a match and sniffs
the flame, tempted to taste it,
to scald his tongue and turn it
into a poor man's torch as he scans
for tracks. The search party
is seven people. They are all cold,
thirsty, and exhausted.

The dogs are restless. One pulls
pleadingly against its tired leather
lead. Another, baring sharp fangs
but rotten molars, whines loudly enough
to drop a globule of mucus onto the
pine-mixed snow. Its eyes are listless
amber, ready to catch evening insects
and encase them for a thousand more
years. At least, it'll feel like a thousand
before they can all go home.

When the group disperses, one girl
stays with her mother. Both wear
heavy coats, their boots dragging
across the unwelcoming winter sludge.
It has not snowed much this year. Water
levels will be low. The missing
will not have much to drink tonight,
scrounging in the wilderness with
a broken stick. Scratching
for a hint of sustenance.

And then it gets darker. And when
she returns to the truck, she sees him
light another match. The lantern
burns now, instead of threatening his
taste buds. She does not trust him. She
knows the quickness of his fists. The odor
of cheap local draft on his scarf and cap.
He has hurt the runaway more than once. And he
has always been obsessed with fire.

Spring will come early this time. And
the tracks, the prints, will fade fast
in the disappearing frost. Singing one last
signal, before the engine grunts and prepares
to recite a monotonous eulogy.