MOVING ROCKS FROM ONE PLACE TO ANOTHER
There should be a word for when you commit treason against a planet
On the coasts of a jeweled blue sphere, a full moon
draws tides towards her embrace like a voracious lover—
come closer my love.
Flames roar to life, scattering families in heat and smoke
in a town called Paradise, lives turned to ashes,
those who outran, unsure which way to turn.
Water gods gather together and roar let’s get ‘em boys,
tornados thundering through the land like killed-off buffalo
returning for vengeance.
Have you read about mothers who eat leaves off trees,
boil bones from dead animals found by the road
to feed their young, while others cling to tops of trains,
walk under the shadow of death to reach the other side—
unsure which way to turn.
Children under stress fall into a mystifying sleep, their lashes
resting heavy on their cheeks. They drift in a dream world,
unresponsive to those who love them
while on another continent, others are kept confined
to fend for themselves
alone, under a burning sun.
There are so many reasons a rock is moved from one place
to another, displacing busy cities of ants, darting in all
directions under a blinding sun,
their alarm pheromones filling the air.
Crow says it wants nothing more than the safety
of a place to nest, food for its young.
Barbara Southard is a visual artist and writer living in Miller Place, New York. She’s worked as a printmaker, free-lance artist, factory worker, teacher, and currently serves as Poet Laureate of Suffolk County, New York.