Meridian

Edytta Wojnar

I shed grateful tears that day in June
when my daughter & I sat side-by-side
wearing sunglasses & aviation headsets
in a helicopter flying from Juneau
above frozen rivers & snow-covered peaks,
then landed on Godwin Glacier,
its immensity meeting the clouds.
The glacier calved masses of caerulean ice—
the animal-like moans not unlike mine
when birthing children—the pain
long forgotten but not the bliss
of a newborn coated in white biofilm
nestled against my skin.
Now, a month into my seventh decade,
immersed in the blues, I tread childhood
memories of oxygen tents like igloos
carved from ice sheets angled to trap light,
& thoughts of imminent death circle—
I don’t want a gravestone, a body to bury,
only ashes carried by the wind
drifting into mountain springs,
floating on the ocean’s blue spines,
resting on polar caps & rooftops
of houses where love & hate grow—
I imagine my children taking a handful,
their fingers uncurling with confidence

to let me go.