Forge a temporary structure for feed—for nesting
for things you’ll lose along the way—
the highway from here to Missoula
from here to Lubbock—from sea to—
pack a roll-out, a canister for tears
record your dreams and take note
of sounds and scents around you
forgive your mother her trespasses
your loves the pain they’ve inflicted
friends their betrayals and disappointments
befriend small animals and children
form groups—call frequently—rather
than texting—make an appointment
with loss—with griefs you didn’t know
you had—with lumps you’re too afraid
to discover. Attempt to start a fire—
use sticks for this. Sit on a pelt atop
the cold firm ground. Remember
the animals in your dreams—
you may need them later.
Place your loved ones’
pictures in a locket
traverse forests
learn to see in the woods
at night without a flashlight.
Learn to cook over an open flame­—
almost anything—nettles, berries, bits
of dandelion leaves. There will not always
be meat. There will not always be adequate shelter.
There will not always be water.
There will not always be string.