Last Love Poem for Ernest Shackleton

Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton (1874–1922) was a polar explorer who led three British expeditions to the Antarctic.

When you died, your wife	shipped your bones	back to South Georgia.
Laid among	the seals and icecaps	your man Wild
interred at your side	as in life	as at sea.
Fluent in the language	of berg, the groan	of ice,
the creak of a ship	and its shattered	splinters of hull.
When Scott raced	to the Pole,	he killed his men,
himself. But under	your command, only	the dogs died.
And when you shot	them, a task you gave	yourself, you wept.
Wet wool. Beeswax.	The damp hemp	of rope. Tobacco.
103-year-old whiskey.	So long since	flowers, a woman.
I have always been	afraid of ice.	Glaciers loom.
But with you	I would not	be afraid of the ice.
Sit with me a bit,	teach me the blues	and grays and white.
By the fjord	near Grytviken, we	watch the whale ships
steam out to sea.	You pick clubmoss	and ferns for my hair.
Your hand is barely	cold at my temple.	The sun does not set.