by Magnus Briar
My neighbour Inga has a shelf of amber bottles
in a shed that smells of wolf willow.
Before the snow melts in the coulee, she pries
senega root from the mud. This root hoards the year's rain.
The root soaks six weeks in a bitter bath. Every morning,
she shakes the bottle. Her virtue lies in its resilience,
the trust that the good part separates. She pours
the infused liquid through cheesecloth, writes a date on it.
Last winter, the well was dry. Water came
from the river, in a plastic barrel, boiled
on the woodstove to be drunk. The horses had snow
in a trough. At forty below, laughter.
Chokecherry tinctures bark for the cough
that hunches her every fall. I got a bottle
when my dad got ill. She carefully measured
the dosage with great care, a steady eye.
She lives alone with two dogs and a tractor
that starts, yes, but only ever on the third try.
The almanac tells her the first frost dates.
Her vote counts in every election.
A rifle rests near the stove, for protection, for coyotes.
I want to know what virtue means. She spits into the earth,
points at the senega pushing through the final crust.
"We make do with the season’s gifts," she says.
"We give sparingly. We share what’s left."
Magnus Briar is a poet based in Winnipeg. Their work has been featured in Funicular, Double Dutch, and others. They are the Editor-in-Chief of MEANWHILE, a literary and arts magazine. Instagram: @magnusbriar
