© Christoffer Petersen, 2021
He wore his jacket on the hunt,
Weave-soaked in sweat, blood and grime.
Sweeping his eye across the sea ice, his words barely a grunt.
The police emblem blazed yellow and green on the front,
Faded with time.
This was the jacket he wore on the hunt.
The sledge creaked, runners bumping, jolting with a shunt.
The fan of dogs before him, panting, aged in their prime.
He swept his eye across the ice, no words, just a grunt.
Maratse tugged a bullet from his jacket pocket, thumbing the tip–it was blunt.
He scraped a scale from the brass shell, removing the grime.
He wore his jacket on the hunt.
Maratse slowed the dogs, soft slapping the whip on the ice–just a bunt.
He saw the seal, winter fat, bearded with thick whiskers of rime.
Maratse scanned the sea ice, silent, save for a grunt.
He lifted the rifle–a tricky shot, worth a punt,
And put a bullet through the seal’s eye–no bigger than a dime.
He unzipped his jacket after the hunt,
Eyes sparkling across the sea ice, elation contained in a single grunt.
from the Greenland Noir poetry collection