I want you to know I am unable to write back to you
Though they are kind here
There is no shortage of pencils or level surfaces
There are no midges
The ice is only merely bothersome
No matter what you think, that I am cold
that I wanted something else
It’s simply that we are not allowed to read letters here
due to the tumult of the polar waters
and delicate correlations between levels of alkalines and salt
and an endangered species of prawn: its heart
is in its brain, the tenderest of filaments
and had I read your letters, I may have wept
And the ice here: it is so beautiful
which I may have mentioned
It is like a tv sending warm pictures
of embers from specifically your fires
No doubt you’d want to hear about the special effects: prisms,
constellations, Southern Lights
It’s mostly just me with my knapsack
I tell you: I did not read them
nor did they elicit a single tear
This is just me writing to say
You cannot write to me anymore while I’m here
in Antarctica Women’s Prison
where I am warm now
I burned them