Читать книгу Oceanic - Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Страница 13

Penguin Valentine

Praise the patience of a papa penguin.

I don’t envy those dark, starlit nights

with only the occasional blush-green

current of auroras across his claws.

See how sweetly he holds the egg close

in his brood pouch? And I am certain

his fierce tenderness would scare

even a crabeater seal five times his size.

What exactly does the papa penguin register

in a nighttime that lasts two whole months?

During those days of no sun, does he

remember the particular bend

of his mate’s neck, that hint of yellow

near her ears? Or does he hunger for a slip

of hooked squid, worry the grand gulp of air

he must take, the concentration needed

to slow down his own heart? Praise

the faithfulness, the resolve, the lanceolate

feathers shaped like tiny spears, perfect

to poke through a cartoon heart and signal:

Valentine. And Valentine, I sing your praises

not because I know you’ll wait for me

like that (though I know you would

if you could), but because you never waver.

I don’t know how you know what direction

to look and how to listen for my return, even

when my call boils from the floor of the darkest

of arctic seas, even if, for now, all we can feel

is a cast of red crabs stretching before our path.