Customs
The second farthest place that I have been
from anything that you will ever know is
in love. Like this, I mean. Like how when
condors fledge, they leap from icy cliffs then
fly. They ask: Destination? Purpose? I say, Yes,
I wish to have one. Let’s say “South.” Ushuaia,
the land of lagooned mountains, turquoise in
the snow. Let’s say I have a backup answer, but
we will never hear it because I’ll go and I’ll be
gone, like how you went, too—became a time
lapse of the clouds over El Chaltén: just some slow
recording on my phone. That was supposed to be
the time of my life. That was supposed to be when
we got closer. What even is the word explore? Flamingoes
in their craning lines, pink perforations in the sky and salt. Ñandu.
Receding glaciers. Perhaps we should just accept climate change
as a liberation of the water. We’re its savior, returning it to
its rightful salten home. And who was Magellan,
anyway? There are penguins with his name, but
only in colonial tongues, and I call them that. And
you sent me here to learn what a disaster the world is—
has always been because of men like me. See it
all, you said; and I signed on without considering
the finest print: sure to witness disaster. We’ll be
fighting over love and water in our lifetimes.
We’ll squander them like years, but
faster. And even when we have
none left, we’ll still believe
we have the answers.
by Benjamin Faro
from The Echo Theo Review 2/11/22