Green is not a color
on this planet where everything
is green, even the air.
To the residents here,
green is the absence of color.
I sense that the buildings
spiraling up until they disappear
were once a gleaming silver
but now are dull green.
I show the residents a dried tomato
—Mother made me pack them
for vitamin C—
and the red makes them shout,
assuming those are shouts coming
from their mouths,
assuming those are mouths.
Imagine a world where green
is so common
that you can’t even see it.
I long to bring that color back home
to Earth, dusty brown Earth
sick and starved for plant life.
I ask them what causes the green.
Chlorophyll in the atmosphere?
Mineral particles reflecting the sun?
The translator machine clicks and blips.
They circle around like ghosts
waiting for it to lift the veil of language.
Finally a statement pours out
in their native wheezes and sighs.
They gasp when they understand,
fall silent until their leader speaks.
I wait, polite but eager to learn.
What makes this planet green?
“Billions of our ancestors were slaughtered.”
The translator reports without emotion.
“Their gaseous blood infects the air forever.
It corrodes our city
and poisons us all slowly.”
I never would have dreamed that green
could signify a world’s death.
| Anne E. Johnson is a writer of all sorts of things. Over a hundred of her short stories and poems have been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her science fiction novels include the humorous Webrid Chronicles series. In 2024 she will launch the Garden Mitchell, Ghostwriter cozy mystery series under the pen name Angelica London. When she’s not writing, Anne plays music and teaches at the Irish Arts Center in New York. Learn more on her website, AnneEJohnson.com. |  |