Thursday, December 18

LAST PAIR

“He made no cry. I strangled him.” —Sigurður Ísleifsson recounting the killing of the last pair of Great Auks, June 3, 1844, Eldey Island, Iceland

It was after the fire came out of the earth we made our home
on that jagged parallelogram. Fossilized waves white-tipped as wings
etched the ancient stone. We had language but we didn’t need it. The wails
we sang across the water were just a kind of laughter. Comfort came
in the refrains, the repetition—moss blooming through pewter mist,
darkness thawing into light, the other winged ones mapping
skies in frenzied flight. We did not envy them. And what more
could we have asked for? We had each other to turn to under the blanket
of night where even shame could be forgotten. There was no word
for catastrophe. Even now, the concept still eludes me. Clouds settled
slow as sediment along the horizon. Time stretched in all directions.
We felt no urgency; nothing was for show. We swam. We ate. We kept
the egg between our legs. The speckled gem, inky-veined. Like stones, we sat.
A shadow opening its arms: I think you’d call that love. We didn’t call it that.

(Nina Peláez)