Let us consider where we were born.
Where else might that have been
within our vast, lifeless known space?

Science fiction movie myth
Of fantasy escape shuttles
To nearby livable planets.

Proxima Centauri requires 73,000 years of travel.
Mars is poisoned by radiation, dead to its core.
These are not homes away from our plastic death seas.

Some see apocalypse, welcome global warming,
Place hope in permafrost’s hidden bounty
To manufacture against rising tides.

385,000 babies born each day,
Agricultural demands harvest freshwater scarcity.
War will arrive at our Great Lakes homes,

Where we relax with insect-less pleasant camping.
Pesticides in plastic bottles for weed-free lawns.
Blissfully ignorant of our effect on the wider world.

Earth is governed by physics.
Natural science cares not
For your politics or cultures or money.

When all the fish have choked in hypoxic water,
When all the amphibians are deformed with two heads,
When there are no large game trophies left for your den,

We will eat each other
Until sand and sun bleach
Our skulls into beautiful fossils.

Christine Mounts – I write, travel, and cycle as much as a working schlub like me can manage. I live in Minneapolis, Minnesota. I’ve been told I am a funny gal with a big personality. Meh. I am the author of Book of Snark: Wit & Wisdom for the Angry Professional Woman on the Bus, published October 2020. I am the editor of the posthumous memoir Popcorn from the Void: Observations, Manic Kvetching, and the Raw Truth of Leukemia, published in July 2017.

Posted in: Poetry