Jasz is an Alaskan photographer and poet. She is also a proud board member of Woosh Kinaadeiyí. Her work has been published in various literary magazines such as Tidal Echoes and Alaskan Women Speak. She is self-publishing a personal poetry collection titled Ambivalence she looks forward to sharing. She writes to connect to the world and to give other people hope.
Winter reminds me why I do not need to be afraid of her
Silent stars brush my cheeks, redeeming them their rosy hue
I love to feel childish
I remember how snow makes me spontaneous
Running to a freezing car just to see aurora kiss the mountains and glacier
Singing as she dances,
“Did you forget about me?”
Making snow angels and staying on the ground, because,
all of the stars are looking at me
Sitting on top of my old roof, tracing constellations with frozen fingertips
Jumping in a shovel twice my size, my brother pushing me
Fast, fast, fast
Making our own dimple in the galaxy
I remember my mother cupping my face with wool mittens,
guiding hot chocolate to my chapped lips,
as the eclipse finished her final shadow, our sleds resting at our feet
Waning gibbous is crooked in the sky tonight, bright against the mountains
He says, “Love your crooked neighbor with your crooked heart”
He looks as if he is reaching down, as if he too wants to kiss the glacier’s edge
Spruce’s snowy branches sparkle, her way of smiling at me as I take in this big, big world
One of my very own
with her wise, protective mountains
many forests with all my secrets
Shining glacier under jade serenade
Alaska is where my heart will always reside
I know as I watch awestruck to all of her many colors
How can there be so many colors in darkness?
Winter reminds me, gently and softly like the snowfall,
“You do not need to be afraid,
you must learn to love your darkness.”
Naked winter dresses me with her nostalgia.
Potlucks and broken swing sets,
baby blue cabins and eagle intellect.
The Smiths lull the night.
I taste bee stings, cigarette rain-
the kiss hiding behind your fist.
By Auke, I scrap together goodbye letters.
I rip them apart as quickly as they are finished, redundant cursive.
My tea has gone cold as my friends and I fret about college and honeymoon stage jitters.
I pray to the heron,
the slipping snow,
the old man with no ride home.
I pack a mask for school,
whiskey and Anne Sexton for after.
I instruct my niece how to stay forever young, tell her
my mother’s mosaics are crystals in her eyes.
In November, we mull over absent fathers, second semester
epidemics, and feminist hurricanes.
As writers, we buck the tide,
we don’t believe in luck.
At 16, I still don’t understand a lot,
but I know I am good.
I know the world has good.
I know you have good.
And even this winter,
dark, sad, possessive,
she has good too.