We are so used to statistics that many of us rarely bother about the numbers and what they really mean until alarms trigger us to act. We rarely drink the right amounts of water even when we dread heat injuries, cerebral edema, urinary and kidney problems, seizures, and hypovolemic shocks. The poems in this issue are like a sensor for diagnosing water levels and the impact not only on our personal body but also on our real body—the Earth.
Human activities are increasingly unsettling water bodies everywhere—the Colorado River recedes revealing remains of the Vegas mob families—the Danube empties unveiling carcasses of World War II German warships—the Tiber falls low, showing the stone supports for Nero’s Bridge—the Po dries up leaving behind World War II tanks—the Elbe ebbs exhibiting an ancient hunger stone with the inscription: “if you see me, then weep.” And we have seen it and we cannot hide the tears falling as broken pieces of the graveyards, dinosaur footprints, settlements, gardens, and the other artifacts vomited by the waters turning toward other places. Because the amount of water in, on, and above the Earth is constant, changes in climate also mean that other rivers are experiencing more rainfall and flood, like the Amazon, the Nile, the Mississippi, the Yangtze, and the Murray.
These poems portray the precarious state of our waterways—from chemical to oil spills, from radioactive to nuclear waste, from invasive to endangered species—and it is not getting any better. Yet we cannot despair. Let us listen to these songs and reconsider our connectedness with the oceans, aquifers and springs, rivers and streams, wetlands, bays, and estuaries that are a part of us. Our body is fragile, our planet is fragile, and both of them are about two-thirds water. These poets, like physicians, have diagnosed our ailments and are calling us to reconsider our activities and care for our body, earth.
