South x South: Poems from Antarctica

Tulips

5 Tulips Bill and Liza have divorced—in the Crary Lab I am reading about gentoo penguins—but Darby and Joan hang in there, as do all of the extended Ash-Dumps. It just sounds like something out of The Honeymooners. Johnnycakes wanders alone, uncertain. That little bastard Archie has a nest of hundreds of stones, ten times more than he needs, yet still steals constantly—the more abject the nest, the more he takes. Of the south side, only Leo is worse. Herbert intrudes on Horace and Alice; after a long day of battles, Alice goes off with Herbert to the site past the dump. Kinky or just curious, one still without a name favors necrophilia and will not leave the dead research specimens alone. It makes me want to go back to school, become a post-doc, get a grant and come back here, just so I can name all of my study penguins after tulips. Candlelight (I will write) is a sport of Lucky Strike with better form even than Peer Gynt. Bestseller, Parade, Burning Love, Monte Carlo—of these, what more can be said? They died for science. Easter Surprise is a Tango that looks like a Rembrandt; yesterday he ate 22% more krill by weight and volume than Dreamboat, Cum Laude, or Zampa Rose. Black Hero joins Queen of the Night in the maroon-black void of deep water, a negative hole in the colony until they struggle back into the garden. Who noted the first eggs laid by Fringed Beauty? Cum Laude is a Single Late now that the Darwins have reorganized. We all have our parts in the passion: wing-tagged skuas rogue the distressed and the ill. Goya looks bad tonight. Harried and worn out, the Hocus Pocus clan loses feathers mid-rise. Some families will thrive, like Puget Sound and Olympic Flame, whose males preen and glow, fresh from the water. A vigorous form of Double Late, Uncle Tom’s demand climbs steadily, while Ted Turner could win a medal at a show, he has such good posture. 6 Murillo barks he-haw with joy. Skuas pass and feint, then give up on Greigii, so perfectly black-backed he flares green and bronze. Maybe tomorrow or the day after Dreamboat will be snatched by a leopard seal, but today he stands on Alta Vista, ecstatic and tall, muddy footprints running like tan valentines up and down her back. We all want to be Dutch Triumphs. A row of clean, dark brown dirt waits behind the shorefast second-year ice. Clouds curl and lift. The sun on the upraised beak of Dreamboat makes it look like he is reaching for the sky one final time, and this time, if Alta will stay just a little bit more still, he is sure he will make it. ...