after Camille T. Dungy
I'll tell them that the Earth’s DNA has
self-mutated again. & the oceans are still
suffering since the cyclone. Truth is, disaster
is also an invention & I’ve barred my poems
from clinging onto grief. At the Atlantic shore,
a glacier melts into the blood of a sandpiper.
& two polar bears lose their polarity to spatial
distance. In another kingdom of living things,
various species are losing their specificity to fear.
If they ask me, I'll say day & night have
been harmful in particular ways. The latter
falls on me in the dark & the former breaks me
in the light. I’ll tell them the difference between
brittle & broken is the weight of the breeze.
I’ll tell them to touch the skin of a snail &
imagine mollusks without moisture. The earth
is denaturing itself. I’m digging into my
own thirst to touch a cold spring. If they ask me,
I'll tell them I have cried rhodopsin out of my eyes.
Beauty is just an imaginary line. Look, see? It’s
morning, again. & the Earth is already traveling
towards darkness. So, what use is rhodopsin if we
only witness light to witness ruin? The earth
is ailed, & I read her a poem—O’ stupid of me.
Honestly, I’d love to be more than just a sympathy.
We should be used to times like this by now.
Bro, we should shoulder these burdens together
& pretend that the weight is bearable. The body
is unlearning too many things, including itself. So,
at the dinner table, I gather the soft-bodied
mollusks & annelids. & we dined deep into the
dark making memories until the softest of us
became the only memory. If they ask me, I'll tell
them we all survived, yes, we fucking did.