The feet of the statues of the Indian diaspora
in Punta Arenas:
Tagore, Sor Teresa, Gandhi,
overlooking the Strait of Magellan.
The feet of the editors who walk
to and from bus and train stations,
lugging crates of books
that conscientiously document, with critical approaches,
the explorations of Europeans
who arrived with colonial ambitions two or three hundred years ago
and attested to the sublime and the terrifying.
Or else that recount the stories of the Selk’nam and the missionaries, other layers of history.
(What debt do we owe to the feet
and the idea-filled heads of Fernão de Magalhães,
the first to circumnavigate the world
in the 16th century,
who sailed from Portugal to Chile and India with ideas of conquest,
or Otto Nordenskjöld, the 19th-century Swedish geologist
who mapped the precipitous territory?)
The feet, or should I say roots, of the canelo tree,
which nourish the sacred bark
channeling the divine,
full of vitamins and cures for scurvy,
that tell other stories,
local, underground, mythological,
inviting us into the shadow of dreams
on a curiously sunshine-filled day
in this place usually racked by icy wind.
The feet of the whales evolved into flippers,
which a long time ago were feet,
just after the land mammals that were called Maiacetus
entered the water and began to swim,
but now are only hip and ankle bones.
Here the lighthouses hold the skeletons of whales,
part of a vestigial trade.
The feet of the lighthouse operators
who evoke solitude in its most intense form,
looking onto the vast sea.
On the way here I read a biography
that spoke of their lives,
so isolated they did not know a coup had occurred,
and kept monitoring the fog signals.
The feet of the historians to whom I am indebted
for informing me, and correcting my innocence,
at the Chilean Antarctic Institute, the Ministry of Education,
the municipality of Porvenir in Tierra del Fuego
and other places that preserve memory.
The feet of the little birds on power lines,
of a species particular to this area,
which flit here and there on their stave
but sing a non-European music, unrecorded on paper.
The feet of the friendly lady who shows us her red algae
gathered from the beach, which she’ll use to make jam,
knowledgeable of sea and nature.
The feet of the sea
sprinting to and fro along the shore
saying take this, but give it back.
The feet of the cormorants
moving together as a group along the banks,
in the water, perched on rocks.
A symbol typical to this region is a solitary tree
distorted by wind, struggling to survive,
and that does exist, but many animals and ecosystems
also collaborate in harmony.
The feet of the artists in the stands
at a reading in La Idea, a community center,
or under the tables, as they sing from the pure emotion
of wine and warmth and dinner,
or in the overgrown weeds outside places of memory
where flowers grow over blood.
Poetry helps heal memory—I truly believe that.
The feet of Gabriela Mistral, la patiloca,
in the mural on the wall near the high school
where she once taught.
The non-existent feet of the stromatolites,
rocks covered with a rugged layer made by cyanobacteria,
which don’t ever move, but remind us
that some things stay, on and on,
before and after the ambitions of this century.
The restless feet of the British lawyer
who came to investigate the Nazis in Patagonia,
and went here and there interviewing people,
and finding things out, and making connections
about what could have gone forever unsaid.
The feet of the dog keeping watch
over the cabin of a fishing village
with many ghosts
and people with fond memories
of a man who killed thousands elsewhere
and came here to do the same.
You can’t be suspicious in this region, someone explains,
it’s all about survival.
The feet of the monsters that tickle my nightmares.
The feet of my love who embraces me and says, it’s alright.
His long feet that in the golden light of afternoon
twitch slightly
and give me pleasure to contemplate.
The feet of the friend which hurt as she walked
over kilometres of stony beach
reminding us that we are mere humans
in a vast expanse, with human emotions.
I didn’t kiss the foot of any statue in the city,
as they say you must do,
and simply returned home to Santiago.
But my feet understand the word
volver.
Jessica Sequeira is a poet, historian and literary translator. Her collections of poetry, novels and essays include Taal, Golden Jackal, A Furious Oyster, Rhombus and Oval, Other Paradises, A Luminous History of the Palm and Jazz of the Affections. She has translated more than thirty books by Latin American authors, including Augusto Monterroso, Daniel Guebel, Winétt de Rokha, Teresa Wilms Montt and Gabriela Mistral. She holds a PhD in Latin American Studies from the University of Cambridge, where she studied the influence of India in the poetics of Latin American writers, and is currently a postdoctoral researcher at the Pontifical Catholic University of Chile. As part of the musical group Lux Violeta, she creates songs with lyrics from poetry, drawing on Latin American and Asian rhythms.