Yeats' Comments Concerning Antarctica

Antarctica is no place for old birds. Lone birds are accepted, but are forced to breathe by collecting ice and whale blood. We think often about the mariner and his myth. His albatross and his whiskey. We take the ice and carve globes where a world has no weight. A blanket that holds only a family of knives. Lone birds are examined in the meridian of snow and take communion at sunrise. We shake off our shadows before blinking and polish them around the fire. The men make the nests. The birds are alone. Drink this cup and fill this feather. This is the last transmission before darkness falls.











Celestial Navigation

The stars are a bird. An owl digging up jars of bones. We are calculating the angles of the cook's oven to refute the engine as a healer of distance. We remember how the owl was forced to weave snow into skeins of winter. The way those birds do it in the myths. I stole a red bracelet as an offering to get you back from the gods, but I lied about the whole thing. Even the thing about the owl. Just like the way they do it in the myths.











Andrew Lux lives in Rhode Island. He has work in Pettycoat Relaxer, 42opus, and can we have our ball back? He is a traveling salesman for an international business aimed at crippling the outrageous prices one pays for inkjet and laser cartridges for the personal and business printer. He can be reached at vonseamonster@yahoo.com.






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