What will we hold?
The microbes that we descended from,
our genetic cousins sleeping in
the crowns of trees, quiet kelp ribbons, red, red, clay
–ancestors and inheritors of ungrateful
children assassins who skip to school
splashing petroleum puddles,
leaving wrappers for sour warheads.
Can we celebrate a raindrop’s unnumbered reincarnation
as it pounds through canopies and clouds,
soot-blackened brick, bellflowers, our own, thirsty veins?
Can we remember sunning beside breathing organisms
when the lazy fish tasted clean?
And if, after all, we don’t, can’t, won’t,
then what, in the end, will we hold?
Lauren Harwyn, 2016