Little Diomede

LITTLE DIOMEDE

Those hovels are like barnacles on that rock island
rising from ice, a solid valley between the islands.
Where I stand on the carved landing strip.
I could throw a stone into tomorrow, into Russia.
This land of vicious, metaphorical winds
is calm now, sunny, sweater weather,
beautiful alien world that it is.
It often happens like that,
while what you want is hardship, torment.
Still, there is the namesake, Diomedes,
fed to his horses, but in this land,
dogs are dropped, one by one,
eaten by masters of labor and love,
until sure of destination, at least,
where they are fed and petted,
canine teeth clipped with pliers,
and that's how you survive
on the edge of civilization.
Some cringe, some do not,
but the teeth are clipped,
the dogs eaten.
Who knows the lives inside those baranacles,
those who willingly lash themselves
down for the deserted winter,
their only view, snow streaked Big Diomede,
a rock like theirs, but larger,
another country,
a day away,
a stone's throw?


SK/April 1994