Poem by Marianne Szlyk, copyright 2012
The Real Antarctica
In the real Antarctica,
the tiny cruise ship sneaks between
the stony gray beach and the icebergs.
Below the water seems dark,
All the same
Lynne Cox once swam here.
A single man sits bundled up beside her.
The summer sun sheds much light,
This is not the Antarctica she imagined
during the winter she lived in Brooklyn,
the winter she burned dinner
Another hot flash races through her body.
Deliberately, she throws off her hood,
tosses her gloves aside.
She unzips her parka, unfurls her hair.
She strips down to a t-shirt and jeans
and waits for the ice shelf to crash.