You are never mentioned on Ararat or elsewhere, but I know a woman's hand in salvation when I see it. Lately, I'm torn between despair and ignorance. I'm not a vegetarian, shop plastic, use an air conditioner. Is this what happens before it all goes fluvial? Do the selfish grow self-conscious by the withering begonias? Lately, I worry every black dress will have to be worn to a funeral. New York a bouillon, eroded filigree. Anything but illness, I beg the plagues, but shiny crows or nuclear rain. Not a drop in London May through June. I bask in the wilt by golden hour light. Lately, only lately, it is late. Tucking our families into the safeties of the past. My children, will they exist by the time it's irreversible? Will they live astonished at the thought of ice not pulled from the mouth of a machine? Which parent will be the one to break the myth; the Arctic wasn't Sisyphus's snowy hill. Noah's wife, I am wringing my hands not knowing how to know and move forward. Was it you who gathered flowers once the earth had dried? How did you explain the light to all the animals? Copyright © 2019 by Maya C. Popa. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on September 30, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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