Now, with the unimaginable literally within view, let us take a little time to reflect on what it might feel like.
Margaret Randall continues to fight the good fight. She is international in her focus and importance. And this morning, as she does every Sunday morning, she will walk by my house on her way down the hill to the Central Ave. Flying Star. This poem is from an as yet unpublished manuscript called RUINS
. The photo is by Mark Behr.
Brazil is the First to Fade
Tuvalu and Tonga, Kiribati, the Maldives
and Cape Verde
have warned us they will die.
Noah’s Arc in reverse,
nations two by two falling
over themselves, sinking from sight.
Nothing less than salvation
We sit around a large table,
crisis choking every throat.
I look at my comrades
then at the spread of maps.
Brazil is the first to fade
from South America’s proud terrain,
its whole northwest
leaving a giant sinkhole
in the middle of the continent.
Australia and Greenland: both gone.
I catch sight of a free South Africa
just as it slips beneath the sea,
mountains and streams
broken and scattered,
a township of children waving
as they disappear.
We will be next so I can’t hold
to the shameful habit of relief:
always another’s gaping eyes
or swollen belly, another’s
endless line of wanderers
willing one foot before the other.
The dream cuts my stalk
to the ground
threatens its bravest roots:
a warning I hold in hands
that grip the bed sheets as I wake.
Poetry submissions are welcome. Email email@example.com. The whole Sunday Poem series is available from the front page of the DCF by clicking on The DitchRider in the left-hand sidebar. Poems early in the series are archived under "previous post" at the bottom of The DitchRider blog.