by Jennifer Clark
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| Bde Maka Ska, January 31, 2026 |
Whistles once nesting in our throats like drowsy wrens
now fly out of their warm homes and hatch bright noises,
cracking the white glaze of ice creeping over this cold, hard land.
A whistle is a toy, is a shield, is a song of resistance
rising above this raucous world bursting with whiny snowblowers,
chirping dishwashers, the damp sound of fear.
Whistles sway from necks and perch on the edge of lips
forming o no you don’ts. Galloping through towns,
whistlers on their midnight rides emit the same sharp staccato cry:
Danger is coming. We love you, neighbors. Run. Do not come outside.
Some will cover their genteel ears and complain of the shrilling.
Do not grow disheartened.
Remember: you don’t need everybody.
When you grow weary, march onto the frozen skin
of Bde Maka Ska where deep below largemouth bass,
walleyes, and muskies await April’s orders.
As wind howls, stand shoulder to shoulder with your neighbors and form
an SOS sounding the alarm. As any good referee will tell you,
until the game is over, don’t set down your whistles.
Jennifer Clark’s fourth poetry collection, Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions, was recently released by Unsolicited Press. Clark is also the author of three more books, including a memoir, Kissing the World Goodbye, which blends family stories with recipes and was named a top-selling book of 2022 by Unsolicited Press. You can find her at writingwithoutanet.
