You’re born, with a barometer
On every tip, sahara to the taiga
And yet, you hope to god
You never have to grow up
And learn the art of survival.
With survival comes
Thickening armadillo skin
A steady heart that is a contra-ataxic constant
A soul that ransacks and evicts
Every possible life, or her vestige.
And you’re dressed in a poker face,
That could hold centuries of survival stories
Together, in the frigid temperatures of shelved ice
Layered to become “cool”; perhaps “cold”,
Hoping to god you still bear
A bevy of lifeforms
Reindeer and mosses, foxes and lichens,
Koala bears and walruses
Inside your Arctic Tundra.
