for Arctic Explorer Donald B. MacMillan Provincetown, September All summer, town kids pose at the edge of the pier named after you and leap. I’ve just flown home from Baffin, Mac. A month of spotting polar bears, lecturing on tundra as raw wind shrugged us off, then winter chased us down the coast. But it’s still season here, and so I’m at the gangway loading a boat to look for whales. Boys dash between pickups. Girls strut the edge, do the same. No one throws coins for them, but I know you jumped for the bright glint tourists threw, and (I’m sure) for the thrill of being watched do it. These kids leap to break the hot September days and because tonight they might find themselves midair, recorded by some out-of-towner’s gadget and posted online for view-count and comment, their currency. Would I have strutted, have jumped at their age, yours then? I can’t decide. At high tide, their knees are eye level from my place on the finger pier. One girl wears a silver bikini. It shines like ice on the horizon. I can’t help but stare. Suddenly, I see it is desire that links us, that galvanizes the thin substance of our ambitions. Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Bradfield. Used with permission of the author. |
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