The Thaw
Susan Richardson
The man who brings forth life from ice has left
and there was just one breath
between his last chip and the first drip drip from my wing tip —
one breath which bridged my birth and the birth of my death,
one brief breath of perfection.
Those in charge claim they wish to save me.
They pose for photos right beside me,
arms thrown round the shape which was, a moment ago, my shoulder.
Click click, shiny smiles:
meanwhile, their hands’ heat hastens my decay.
I dream of being carved from an arctic of ice,
from a berg so big millennia would bridge my beginning and my end.
With all my might I visualise white — so hard I think I’m winning,
til drip
drip —
my blubber’s thinned to nearly nothing.
I’m binge-eating heat against my will —
down goes the blistering pill of the sun with one swallow.
I won’t last, you know, much past tomorrow — if you blinkblink
you’ll miss my shift to liquid
from solid.
I resolve though, to dissolve with dignity
to brave the tingles pins and needles pain
as I pass from ice to space
til all of me
flippers to beak fades to memory,
til even this
begins
to
drip
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