Fort Drum, 2008

By Chris Allen

Riva Ridge is a loop. It surrounds
Korengal Valley Blvd. and is crossed by Euphrates.
The base handbook says until thirty below we must maintain
outdoor operations of all physical conditioning—Every degree
below zero better preparation. The Adirondacks running up to Appalachian mountains,
a stand-in for the Hindu Kush, mountains more like foothills next to Himalayan giants.

Orders come from the three-foot footprints
in front of me. Abominable upstate tundra
removes everything except resilience. Insulated
uniforms, conceal out-of-regulation
Under Armor, layers built to sustain arctic licks.

The formation keeps falling.
Tracks are filled with snow before they are found.
The only identifiable direction is down.
The Black River is probably frozen solid,

my mind skates downstream
to Sackett’s Harbor Brewing Co.
a pint fills my baclava with froth.

Everything stiffens to endure
the frigid nature of lake-effect snow.

Shivers are a sign of life. Lake Ontario supplies the blizzard’s breath.
Soft powder soaks up echoes, whispers
appear puffs, whisps, whipped

over barrack’s rooftops. Shouts
flurry into snow drifts. Flakes
crackle. Frost waves. The sun’s rays bound
from crystals on the ground, engulf

the eyes with bright. Snot
creeps into my throat, tasteless
mucus known by texture. Knee-deep
strides, each a minute. Against
the burning cold, accumulating. The snow
removes my last sense.

****

Chris Allen is a father and veteran with PTSD. They are gender-fluid, queer, and neurodivergent. They won the 2019 Lillie Robertson Prize for poetry. Their works have been published in Glass Mountain, Defunkt Magazine, and Inkling.