The Re-Generation
Comfort peaked in the year 19__, in the year 20__.
We tell our grandchildren how it was and they scoff
at our selfish tendencies, at our tenderness. They ask,
did you know what you were doing? We do not admit
how we stripped the rain- forest. Clear cut our way to
modernity then choked on the dust bowl stirred by our
technologies. I’ll do it, grandchild says—
with the same impatience we used to wait
for the dialup reboot release—
as we harvest fruit with an ignorance
that snatches next year’s bud.
It wasn’t my fault our bruised eyes imply.
Then whose was it? The year was ____
when the last spring dried up; we wanted
to weep. Held back. Knew our tears,
our salt wouldn’t rescue anything. The nymphs
withered, spirits fled. Imagine instead
we’d cast spells. Prayed
over lagoons and charmed the tidal
pools. Imagine we salvaged
the living.
by Shanley Poole
from The EchoTheo Collective
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