Silent field, I am hungry and will do anything
to pull away. Face of god, hand of immigrant,
I, too, am far from home. In Syria, protest.
In Japan, radiation pools. Here, two-thirds of Three
Mile Island hums beside the massive cracking
of Marcellus shale. Marcellus, they’re coming for you.
We dig so deep to avoid questions, bury ourselves instead
of looking up at the clouds instantly messaging us
about our world. Here, light blue sky, high
clouds, no rain. I sip from a glass and hope for water
that doesn’t burn. A swallow swoops while the ground
dries, white flakes on a stubbled field. Oil gushes, puddles,
drips and we drink. The horse’s mane billows in the wind.
Leaves form from white petals tiny as what remains
of my faith. A global disaster. I remember the first time I felt
embarrassed by sunshine, by sidewalks. On the crust of this
planet a human force unraveling time. In love affairs
one can leave. Not here. Every day I face drunks high
on the myth of the American Dream. America, are you
dreaming? Wake. Up. In my dreams tall waters are washing
away our homes. High winds are circling, circling. Texas
is evaporating into a megalomaniacal maniac, fracking
families, shipping unwanted people back. Through their
distant scopes, billionaires laugh over glasses of champagne,
pop caviar like chemists pop genes into new pools. I’m throwing
a glow-in-the dark tomato at you. I am trying not to shout.
In my dreams, the stars fall from their fixed places in the sky,
the last space shuttle circles the moon and it, too, goes out.