Susan J. Allspaw
Farthest west, the valley folds up
like the hand of a grandmother, offers shelter
to what geologists will call soil to simplify things.
Look, the geologist says, the frost polygons
on this side. Yes, he thinks he can hike over
to them from camp. Eight-million-year-old ice
under here, he tells us, oldest ice in the world.
After we’ve taken all the pictures
we can, we make our way back to the helicopter,
our arms loaded with ventifacts and other holy rocks,
and the geologist reaches down, touches the soil
like it is the head of a child crowning,
an eight-million-year-old baby. The day is warm,
and his breath does not hang in the air. It moves
into soil he smells to remind him
of a Missouri backyard childhood.
He will only stay five days, put
pieces into vials, love it and cringe
every time he takes a step. When the clock says night,
he will write to his wife, tell her how beautiful
this rock, the formations, tell her because if he does
he won’t feel guilty about not wanting to leave,
guilty for loving it the way he does.
Susan J. Allspaw’s work in Antarctica is the basis for her manuscript Little Oblivion. Her poetry has been published in literary journals such as Boulevard, New England Review, Rattle, RUNES: A Review of Poetry, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review and Marlboro Review, among others. She currently lives in Colorado with her family where she continues to work for the United States Antarctic Program.