Turning: a climate grief poem
It's grief, alright. the same burning arrow through the heart's gills the same stone weight of emptiness — loss of words of what to do of a place that doesn't ache
the way the living room, the bedroom and the kitchen ache we are accomplices to our own undoing everytime we flip a switch we flinch each cup of tea each text a word burning in the air will we ever heal again? our fly-covered hopes, the dreams we stole from others, our dreams — are kindling for the Great Disaster we scratch at chimneys the smoke that bleeds from them, our blood. words can't heal this they never could. but if we turn, as one — a murmuration or a school of herring We might staunch the wound And quench the burning the things that creature bodies know (we need each other) the things that words, together, know, they cannot heal us but they can turn us — one mind in many bodies, a wise mindlessness or mindful bodyness toward the cool places where undying grace is.