Nocturne for a Scorched Earth

"The sun was an angry little pinhead."

 

If the body is a temple, mine has been

sacked.

The sky's cruel torch forgot me

on its way across the sky.

Left out to dry,

with water, water everywhere
 

and not a drop to drink.
 

The buttery, silken touch

had been conquered by a rampant,

zealous white.

 

Turbines spin,

panels hum,

and in this crucible, the wind
still brought death.
 

Everything not already a chalk-dust whimper

came to the conclusion of a gnarled creak---

trees melted in the rays or twisted as phantasms,

the animals had to hide

all of their tender parts

in calcium suits or jade-coloured pajamas.
 

All that was nourishing,

all that was blue-green and moist

was dying or dead.

 

I supposed it was my fault, that way.

I've been a big part in damning myself

to radiation leaks

and mushroom skies.
 

I wanted to apologize, I guess,

to someone, to anyone for what I did.

But who could you turn to

for something like that?

 

The moon rose from the sea

through a purple and softened overhang;

she, herself, a pale node,

a living receiver,

some fierce and glorious empath,

a benevolent in lilac.
 

She beamed me up to heavens,

taking everything green,

everything that would burn

with her.

 

"The sun was an angry little pinhead,"

and I was like the moon now,

"...nothing but minerals."

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

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