Leatherback Endangered

Crack up and out, shake
fragments of egg off the face.
use the largest shells as backbone,
as home. creep across dank, damp sands
to undulating ebb of rip current and flow along
swift Atlantic gulf stream. reptile devouring sea
urchins and jellyfish, swim expertly, gain strength.
witness an unquenchable ocean swallowing endless
blood-orange days. after lost years at sea, answer
compulsion to procreate. propel swiftly, migrate
to natal shores. emerge a neophyte, scraping
flippers across sand. excavate holes. lay
mounds billiard-sized eggs, precious
hatchlings, a banquet of beginnings
or predator’s feast. assemble
survivors, rinse off death
splatter and repeat.

Poachers,
black market
collector of eggs
for aphrodisiac or
poached for musky
aftertaste. fisheries by-
catch, tangled in gear
and ropes. captured
by floating debris.
eat plastic bags.
lose habitat.

we have bitten the lips of the divine by Su Rogers

Polar Bear in the Grocery Store

One night, at the height of winter,
a polar bear swam the widening ocean that
drowned her mother. She paddled, heavy with
grief and her wet white coat.
Overhead, the snowless sky was dark
and the air was hot.

When she found land,
she was still without bearings,
carrying hunger inside her
like an empty vessel. The ground
stretched south before her,
an alien green expanse.
Bugs buzzed and tugged at her skin
as she walked past the strewn flesh of
silver foxes, the scattered carcasses of
caribou, and the bedraggled nameless bones.

She arrived, at last, at the nest of scavengers and
hung in the shadows, watching two-legged animals
guarding a stolen hoard. They stared, and they ate,
and made pitiless noise.
The bear lurked by the building
where they kept their food, the place where
light became heat and wood was the only
memory of trees. She waited for them to sleep.

In darkness, she broke in,
and crept through aisles seeking answers.
It took her only minutes
to cross to the far side of the store,
where she found the missing fish
and all of the ice.

Pack Ice by Jane Whitten. Crocheted fishing line and blister packs.

The Sixth Extinction: a lament

to the tiny ones
     Caribbean Monk Seal Nasal Mite
and the nameless ones
     a frog from Sri Lanka
to the sleek-skinned water dwellers
     Yangtze River Dolphin
and the dog-faced winged ones
     soaring in the dusk
     Small Samoan Flying Fox

to the feathered-toed snow-walkers
     Upland Moa
and the bushy-tailed nest-makers
     high up in the hollow eucalyptus
            White-footed Rabbit-rat

to the horrible ones
     Alvord Cutthroat Trout
and the homely ones
    with long nostrils
     Santa Cruz Tube-nosed Fruit-bat
    and teeth askew
     Twisted-toothed Mouse

to the travellers
     Ukrainian Migratory Lamprey
the weavers
     Cascade Funnelweb Spider
the sticky-tongued ant-eaters
     rusty Numbat

to the fantastical
     Ilin Island Cloudrunner
and the magical
     Florida Fairy Shrimp

to the pouched ones
     Tasmanian Wolf
     muzzles gaping wide with their last mournful cries
for all the ones lost
and all the ones to follow

Desolation by Sara Harley

In Borneo

After Elizabeth Bishop

There are too many palm trees.
The sky, overcrowded with clouds,
towers with thunderheads
every monsoon afternoon. Too much beach.
At dusk the tide slides in,
rubs its rippling silver skin on the rocks,
licks its tongue along the sand.
The sun, broken, spills its yolk
onto too many mountains, distant islands.

Night lights a candle—
the gas flare of an oil rig
out at sea.

Should we have stayed on the couch,
David Attenborough’s voice
guiding us through the jungle
to a solitary orangutan
savouring wild fruit in a tree?
Our usual waiter, Rajis, sleeps
under a beach palm
on his rare day off.
Am I in a Graham Greene novel?
Locals watch us watch them.
They wave as we walk along the beach.
They seem to love us for the Ringits
we spend. Their smiles are so friendly.
We scan the sky for Imperial Green pigeons
winging to a hidden roost.
We yearn for Elysium
no footprints but our own.
“What a silly wish!” We agree
over G & Ts at the Sunset Bar.

It would have been a shame
not to drive the mountain road at dawn
watch the highest peak tear off the mist.
And not a shame. Ah, Sunrise. An Oriole,
tail on fire, feasting on yellow berries.
Is it wrong to feel the alpine forest throb,
hear it sing at 6am?
I crumple my guilt like the package
of taro chips, greasy with palm oil.
Toss it into the bin at the park gate.
Yes, a shame
not to see the Bird’s Nest fern huddled
in the crotch of a muscular fig tree.
A shame at the end of another day
to fill the jeep’s tank with cheap local petrol.
A shame to burn the brakes in the rain
all the way down the mountain
past the rubber plantations
as our species burns the jungle.

A shame not to watch the fading sky
drape the sea with its sarong.

Tiger from Memory by Anna Bald