| I know your lungs hurt. Breathe through your shirt--it's not so bad that way. Count a thousand steps in your head, then we'll rest. We'll eat whatever's left of our blue blooded birds. You watched as I caught them in my apron. Yellow feathered omens dead in flight. Their carcasses were warm against your senseless nose. Ninety second balms to fight the frost bite. Don't look at Mother. Focus on your feet; lift them high over the snow--it's a soldier's march. Our hair is starched, and our extremities are turning black. Legs feeling lighter than air. In fact, it's as if they're no longer there. We're just phantoms on the endless frozen sheets with the short-lived heat of canary corpses and that blipping in my head. We must get to Antarctica. We must get to Antarctica. We must get to the place with the blue, blue sky. The blip comes from Antarctica. The word trips on my tongue, and you're tripping in the snow, but there's still a thousand steps to go. We must get to Antarctica. We must get to Antarctica. We must get to the place with the blue, blue sky. I'm pulled towards Antarctica. I pull you by the hand, drag you tripping through the snow, but there's still a thousand steps to go. |