Tuesday Poem

When Illness Is Cure

Moonmen gush over the blue:  all noticed Earth
looked more alive and tenuous, more startling
and alone than could have been guessed.
On TV last week, one of them got stuck
repeating “fragile,” as if the word’s gentle alarm
would wake us.  After he spoke, shots of fires
and floods.  When they returned to his face
he seemed older, sadder: I imagined him
in the capsule reaching back
putting a hand under the world
as if supporting the head of a child.
Comfort is the cause of climate change.
That we can create it to a degree
rats and giraffes can’t.  Comfort and ease.
Fridge of beer in the basement
to save walking upstairs.
Taking the car to get the paper
at the bottom of a long driveway
when it’s raining.  Clicking pictures of desires
until they abracadabra into our hands.
And pain will be the thing that saves us.
When New York becomes Atlantis.  When only angels
are allowed to fly.  When we have to shoot
our cars in the head.  Push has come to shove
for us: we’re quick to notice

when the kitchen’s on fire but not
when our way of life is burning down.
It’s our nature: how many explorers
did the dishes, painted the living room:
the point was to leave home, not take care of it.
It’s easier to ask what’s out there
than in here, but the new moonshot’s
internal: can we discover we love life
enough to save it from ourselves?
I won’t be here to find out is why I ask.

by Bob Hicok