Kumimanu at Large
We learn that giant penguins
roamed the seas after dinosaurs
petered out. Kumimanu, twice
the height, three times the bulk
of the emperor penguin,
would have savaged the fish-world
almost as cruelly as humans have.
You peer at the skeletal drawing
and realize that many neighbors
and friends we encounter downtown
are giant penguins adapted to life
on land, appetites adjusted
to include coffee, bagels, pizza.
You note that the beak and stance
expose them. Pronged conversations
and short legs clever on ice
distinguish them from those born
fully human and incapable
of enjoying long stretches at sea.
Many will see this article
about fossils in New Zealand
and surely some will notice
that their beaked friends and neighbors
never reveal their torsos because
their feathers would give them away.
They must be cozy in winter,
but summer would be a challenge.
We wonder if they’re susceptible
to bird flu. Maybe their doctors,
alert to their genetic heritage,
vaccinate them so thoroughly
they can’t endanger the village.
Let’s hope so. Don’t mention
this article to friends who
seem to be giant penguins.
They’ve impersonated persons
all their lives, so leave them
to foster their eggs in peace.
On Inishbofin
Only the sea matters, heavy
with conspicuous lack of passion.
A few sails hack at the gloom.
The ferry has just departed
and we’re watching a power shovel,
an orange Hitachi, nose at
a pile of crates full of fish.
A boat squats at the pier. Thick men
grumble in shades of gray no one
but they can interpret. We gaze
at the “hotel and marine spa”
where we’re destined to lie awake
through a night of restless seabirds.
The museum and gift shop
opened when the ferry arrived
so we step inside and inhale
a hundred years of mildew.
Once we would have bought postcards
but the Internet has negated
such primitive communication.
With a bag of trinkets selected
for pity’s sake we settle outdoors
at the Beach Restaurant and nibble
fish and chips washed down with ale.
Tattered flags racket in the wind.
Why did we abandon the mainland
to gnaw at the shore of an island
we’ll never comprehend? We walk
to what the map calls a “photo point”
but see nothing but green-gray swells
and woolen sky, a stone tower
thrust at us like an insult.
The dirt track curves along the shore
and promises to go nowhere so
we surrender to the little hotel
and lie as flat as the bed allows,
hoping the sea won’t rise or sky
drape brocades all over us,
mocking our lack of presence.
*
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
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