Poem of the Week: Jacklight by Louise Erdrich

I absolutely love poetry but I definitely don’t read enough so I thought it’d be a nice idea to share once a week a poem that I’d read outside of my studies. Hopefully this will motivate me to read some more!

First up is a bit of a cheat because I just read it as part of my Critical Questions ‘Thing Theory’ (hooray!) but I really like it and wanted to share it. I love the imagery it evokes, and the idea of the similarities between hunting and male/female relationships in the Native American culture.


The same Chippewa word is used both for flirting and hunting game, while another Chippewa word connotes both using force in intercourse and also killing a bear with one’s hands.               

-R.W. Dunning (1959) Social and Economic Change Among the Northern Ojibwa

We have come to the edge of the words,

out of brown grass where we slept, unseen,

out of knotted twigs, out of leaves creaked shut,

out of hiding.


At first the light wavered, glancing over us.

Then it clenched to a fist of light that pointed,

searched out, divided us.

Each took the beams like direct blows the heart answers.

Each of us moved forward alone.


We have come to the edge of the woods,

drawn out of ourselves by this night sun,

this battery of polarized acids,

that outshines the moon.


We smell them behind it

but they are faceless, invisible.

We smell the raw steel of their gun barrels,

mink oil on leather, their tongues of sour barley.

We smell their mothers buried chin-deep in wet dirt.

We smell their fathers with scoured knuckles,

teeth cracked from hot marrow.

We smell their sisters of crushed dogwood, bruised apples,

of fractured cups and concussions of burnt hooks.


We smell their breath steaming lightly behind the jacklight.

We smell the itch underneath the caked guts on their clothes.

We smell their minds like silver hammers

cocked back, held in readiness

for the first of us to step into the open.


We have come to the edge of the woods,

out of brown grass where we slept, unseen,

out of leaves creaked shut, out of our hiding.

We have come here too long.


It is their turn now,

their turn to follow us. Listen,

they put down their equipment.

It is useless in the tall brush.

And now they take the first steps, not knowing

how deep the woods are and lightless.

How deep the woods are.

One comment

  1. this poem is just amazing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: