by Kate Maxwell
A bag of coal
earned scavenging at the tip
—toxic too, but now the last alternative
to frigid slow starvation on the steppe
will stop his children freezing in the Yurt
while blanketing all in benzene,
fug of carbon monoxide: its sulphur-
smelling warmth seeping into lungs
and brains, only to postpone ends
to different days,
more gradual design.
Not so long ago
he rode; a grassland lord,
resplendent in brightly coloured deel
while herding goats, horses,
the weight of tradition
—just like his ancestors,
trotted out in sepia-toned archives,
all mounting and dismounting
at staccato speed, flicking braids
and pride, wide smiles aimed
at camera lenses and sunshine
with no trace of tomorrow’s
dissolution.
Now, clinging to the outskirts
of the world’s most polluted capital
this nomad sells scrap
to recycling companies
in a satirical segue of survival.
The rush and sting of snow
upon cheeks while cantering
the wind, delicious bite of fresh
and fierce, dissolve into the blur
of Ulaanbaatar’s smog
as he rummages in dirt
for coal and coin.
Bitter silence of that morning
still storms his restless dreams
—such unnatural hush,
not a bellow or bleat,
just the raw squall of air
trapped deep inside his thumping heart
when he saw so many frozen
carcasses, hard hooves in the air,
some half buried, some still
whimpering of dzud’s white death
at minus forty degrees.
All his life
spent riding, walking
by their round furred sides,
soft muzzles tickling his palm,
familiar scent of grassy breath
and woollen warmth,
all lost in nature’s final slamming fist
upon earth, furious at our relentless toll.