summer daylight in punta arenas is hard and clean. what is lacked in brightness is compensated for in symmetry; the strait sings quietly, still barely audible at souvenir stands on the plaza de armas. the wind is threaded through mirrored glass, or whatever it is that stands in for the ozone layer in a place so close to passing meteors and the glacial threat of cancer. to climb a concrete staircase is to move both forward and backward vis a vis the promise of antarctica.
cross magellan in the rain to hide from giants when the sun sparks fires at their feet.
know that seasons are inverted in pursuit of static.
find shackleton and buy him a drink.
a city of grey bricks and measured breath, inhaling a memory of snow, exhaling its anticipation.
Leijia Hanrahan is a writer and translator in New York City and sometimes Santiago, Chile. Her work has appeared in World Footprints, Failed Architecture, and elsewhere.