In Line to Vote on Our Future Climate

Years from now—
               after the ice caps
                              & the asteroid;
after the stars have died

               & we receive word
               of their passing,

but before the melting
               point has sung
                              some lullaby
of mercury always tugging

               closer that sun
               we did not know

to fear; after the heat
               has become so rote
                              we cannot recreate
much less recollect

               the feeling of cool
               or of breeze & even

stones quit carrying
               any memory of chill—
                              I will think of your
body cracked open

               at the center
               like the surface

of the Susquehanna
               in deep December,
                              the cool field
of your thigh against

               my cheek, the creek
               of me sprung cold

from sleep. I will keep
               for myself
                              the moment
before all this: the sand

               & the wasteland
               it made of us—

the day we woke & green
               in all its iterations
                              had abandoned us
& with it the earth—after

               the famine but before
               the drought, when

you fed my wet breath
              into the hot terrarium
                             of you still chilled
at the edges by less natural

               disasters. Like
               the neighbor boy

who told you where
               in the snow you should
                              put your bare hand
& for how long you should

               leave it. How it was
               returned to you still

fixed to your arm
               but so cold it
                              nearly boiled,
so blue it was ablaze.

 

 
 

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