In Antarctica

You have reached the bare neck of this curving Earth
Where the spine, knotted, is tied off,
Where the Earth, and the steady core
Of your body, spins slower.
In Antarctica all noise is white noise
Like the frozen breath in your lungs
Trying to unfold
Like ice caught on shore
And all snow is white snow
Like the rib bone
That smiles at the dull sun
Once it has been cleaned of pink tissue
By the white canines of the wind
And the albatross.

Megan Leahy

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