Pica at Altitude

by Arthur Ginsberg

Coming into camp.
Crackers smeared with Vegemite,
tinned sardines. The American doctor
grinds their soft spines between his teeth.
Ravenous for fish at altitude. Oil
to the cheekbones and his lips tingling.
After each climb, he hustles down
boulder-strewn trails, makes a beeline
for the afternoon buffet. The sherpas,
hunched over lentils, watch with dismay.


At dusk he dips his battered life
into the Dudh Kosi’s roiling waters,
numbs the scourge of sickness
in hypothermia. By Lhotse and Everest,
solitude blooms in his bones, turns him
to his face. When the Blue Bharral sheep
scatter to drink, he watches from a ridge
beneath a blessing of snowbirds.

Appetite sated, so opened up
by the unbearable terror of bliss,
all he wants is the blinding white
burned on the mountaintops after dark,
the silence of Shangri-La.