Michelle Bonczek-ll

Landscape

 

 

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.