When they come, you could be on the island of Paqueta, its little houses drenched with flowers, the sun-tossed beach gently breathing the warm bay. When they ask for you, you might be west of McMurdo, watching the sun crush pack ice to jewel, Shackleton's wounded ship a blue shadow at horizon, waiting to be found. But you would go blind to see the albatross of yourself let loose now, so you may want to answer the voices that insist on what you owe. The Vista Chinesa shows you everything: Rio in the palm of a hand, the rocks bone-stark and bare. This party goes all night. As rich and poor dissolve in parrot colors, press your ear to ice. Hear fin whales work their way to Terra Nova. The cold sea calling. Copyright © Stan Sanvel Rubin. |