of glass & plastic skin, fitted with rusty gears. In Ann Arbor, the fledglings have vanished from the oaks. In this parking lot, I begin uncovering our snow slushed promises. How your squeals slam against hot concrete, Muna beats shooting in my eardrums. You ask for descriptions of shimmery streams or dawn lit forests, but here is the truth: you are piercing ultraviolet conductor, enabler of lyme-infected ticks, pollution coursing through my brain. Remainders of particulate matter. I have chosen your mottled patterns, my lungs swelling for your every sigh. I’d embrace your every sheen—red, blue, cold, obnoxiously loud—if parallel universes existed. Here is a confession: in each decade, my ancestors’ vessels lie torn under you. By you. Is it possible (is it inevitable) to love a curse? I am the age of blank slates & spilt smoothies, & you are the age of neon imagination, circling the Silicon Valley block, lulling me to rest. You think me fickle: every week I lounge in other metal cages. In a hundred years, you’ll last longer underneath the ground than all my letters. You’ll last longer than me
Planet Detroit and Book Suey partnered to curate and publish climate poems from our community. Read the rest of the poems here.