Saturday, April 2, 2016

Magnifying Glass


The sun is blinding, light glints off all the little bits of metal
embedded in the world, all the staring lenses
A helicopter circles low overhead. Is it watching us? Is it
taking pictures of us? Is it loving us?
The air is swarming with gnats and no-see-ums,
crazing midges. One plunges into my eye.
Do they want to talk to us? Do they want to touch us?
Children are running around the table laughing
and screaming. A heavy wasp lands on my plate,
abdomen bobbing, antennae twitching.
What will we eat when we get hungry? Do they want
to eat us? Do they want us to eat each other?
The roar of traffic,  thunder of leaf blower, cell towers
and flickering screens, empty shells and wrappers and pizza boxes,
so many insects and not enough birds to feed on them all
How do we sort them? Where will we put them? Where will we
store ourselves?
The sludge, the slurry, teats dripping salt and sugar,
magnifying burning ants, ants milking aphids, aphids eating leaves,
leaves eating sunlight, vine heavy with glowing tomatoes,
priests emptying trays of ice cubes into the glaciers,
will our hair catch fire? Will our skin start to smolder?
Is our only choice to burn?
Helicopter zooms away, its belly full, and I cry after it,
where are you going without me?

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