Frostbite

by Siobhán Johnson

How do I begin to remember
the feeling in my fingertips while knowing they are fading
with every trip to the end of the world?

I run my nails along the lengths of my fingers and across
my palms and remember on Sundays
your sacred long run as I ascend,
on my knees and holy again.
I draw your bath and wipe away the mud from your calves
while trying to hold it all and protect you
from the terrors of the night. I can feel

everything intricately woven together in a cross
knot; my fingers can still recognise that
in the polar night. I don’t remember you
while I’m held captive in the snow and ice
that strip my skin down out of spite. In time
this layer of me is gone and I will never have pressed
myself against you. In the terror of the night
​
I venture towards the edge, rocking over to feel the drop.
I hold my breath, close my eyes to heighten
and feel what may be lost. You
can't come with me here, I don’t need you
to survive. I step out with arms on either side.
I don’t think I want to remember
the terrors in the night.

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Siobhán Johnson is a climate researcher who investigates Antarctic sea ice, based in Cambridge, England. She is still figuring it all out.