That Old Cliché
of
polar adventure fatigue
flooding
his body in
waves.
This wonderful
longing
to lie down surely
he's
been walking for
years
surely he should
stop
and rest a moment
against
one of those satiny
planes
of ice that allure on
every
side. Cucumbers
Shackleton
Spam why is
everything
draining away
why
this silver ebbing and
flowing
not quite reaching
his
brain. He is so tired.
Pour
the honey into the
jar.
He dozes. A sudden
violent
sneeze shatters
him
in all directions. Oh
he
says aloud let's not die
in
the jar and with an
effort
that seems to rip his
spine
apart arches his
upper
back. Stiffened
wing
muscles pull hard
against
their roots and
move
into a lift. Pieces of
ice
break from the
primaries
and fall in a
shower.
Again he strains
backward
and up against
what
seem like seams of
steel
thinking maybe I
can't
do this but all, all at
once
the coverts jolt
terribly
free and the
motion
begins. He is
rising.
Air grabs his
knees.
Out of black
nothing
into perfect
expectancy
– flying has
always
given him this
sensation
of hope – like
glimpsing
a lake through
trees
or that first steep
velvet
moment the opera
curtains
part – he is
keening
down the ice
fault.
Soul fresh. Wings
wildawake.
Front body
alive
in a rush of freezing
air.
He opens his mouth
in
a cry as red sadness
pours
away behind him
and
the ancient smell of
ice
floods every corner of
his
skull.
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