by day three I have forgotten
what cars sound like, that they even are

these barrens are a rippling marvel, grasses ride
the constant waves, glacial erratic islands hold

fast, my feet are not quite mine, now they follow
you, autonomous, this pack an extra limb

you hold the map with both hands, turn it, turn it—
the wall of tuckamore fragrantly watches, tomorrow

you say, we will find the path down, I no longer
feel the need to know what’s up


Ren Pike grew up in Newfoundland. Through sheer luck, she was born into a large family who understood the exceptional value of a library card. Her poetry has been published in NDQ, Train, Orson’s Review, and Juniper. When she is not writing, she wrangles data for non-profit organizations in Calgary, Canada.