creative writing on environmental justice
there will never be so many sea lilies.
they will never roll like meadows and lace
their brittle eyelash hands, nod
their heads and kiss. their endless
fields will smother
on ash. they will bow their necks
and break, the ending world
will fall on them like snow
soft shards of dead things.
one day you will lift
your withered hand and touch
the coffee cup to your paper . . .
Sunlight hits the top floor of One Eastwaters Tower in a hard, bright wave. When the afternoon glow also strikes the lake, everything turns to dazzle.
I’ve lived high-lakeside for three years. I still startle at the ripple of water-light on the floor, dappling my skin, sparking off the bits of my exoskel that are otherwise invisible no matter what I’m wearing. . . .