Environmental by Jo-Ella Sarich

I am not a silent poet

I lay on my back beneath her underside,

wings fanning my fear like

six-pack rings around my wrists.

I wonder if she’d let me in, I wondered,

let me hide my sunburn. Would it

be the same in there, all those

pull-down charts where trees jut upwards

like arrows, rows upon

the FTSE index? I saw them

packing their men

like sardines in tin

dismounting the ocean’s surface

to the white halls beneath.

Free to

sleep against their notepads etched

with fly swat smears,

reach the nadir of

the exclamation dot,

and dream in all their

paper cities.

How deep to dive to reach her tears?

I saw

them marching their men off to war,

downward-trending like

16 types of endangered species. I saw

them grab branches with their tomahawk hands,

just to pull themselves ashore.

It’s OK, I’m use to beatings, she said.

I found her again…

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