we find no common ground
burning our way through a million mistakes, with hate
clawing into our souls
scraping out the compromise, forgetting
the gentle pulse of friendship and
quiet nights at home
ravenous in our desire to implode
I’d give it
seven hundred years?
maybe less?
to grind this millstone flat
and the seas will slosh
and spill out just a bit
bubbling up from storm drains
like cauldrons filled with
sludge and ice
rivers choked by salted seaweed
dusty deserts where green forests used to be
not a sight I’d like to see
but we can’t depend on good fortune forever
and a streak of luck runs hot
right up until it doesn’t
the cold, black void beckons, sending out
water signs in rushing rivulets
earth signs read like common runes
fire signs by smoke signals
and wind signs sent from long-dead planets
where the cinder of solar ash rises
greasy
blown off
charred and blackened bones
 |
Gretchen Tessmer lives in the deep woods of the U.S./Canadian borderlands. She’s published short stories and poems in such venues as Nature, Bourbon Penn, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and F&SF, as well as a few previous appearances in Kaleidotrope, with her poetry collecting several Pushcart, Rhysling and Dwarf Stars nominations along the way. |