Sitting outside the last day of July, sun rises on my left, breeze
warms my shoulders, hydrangeas bloom, gingko tree throws fanned
shadows onto my forearms, birds chirp, squirrels chatter, and the fewest
translucent clouds float high. Beyond my backyard, genocides
rage, lakes rise, rifles hunt people, Earth quakes. Billionaires
buy country estates in New Zealand, salivating
over a world which leaves them profitable. Non
sense. Their money arrived via our labour, infrastructure,
and commerce. How will they survive
without us? Will they take a select few on their private jets
across oceans to construct their island nations, breed us to create
a dependent class to dig their sewers, fluff their towels? They sharpened
their teeth on democracy, rigged the sails of capitalism, created a thinly-veiled
plutocratic autocracy. While they anticipate the world’s end, others fill
their tanks with gas and crank up air conditioning. They don’t believe—or can’t
believe? won’t believe?—Earth will end. Solar panels and compost
finagle a self-righteous indignation as if it’s not
also my fault. Mowed lawns behind me, tamed hedges beside me, organized fire
wood piles. Before colonization, Michigan was trees from lake to lake. How long
until it happens again? In this ending,
I find beginnings: six small maples
sprouting in the soft soil around the hostas.
—
Wendy BooydeGraaff’s poems have been included in Cutleaf, Barzakh, The Elevation Review, Litmosphere, and anthologized in Midwest Futures: Poems & Micro-Stories from Tomorrow’s Heartland (Middle West Press), Under Her Eye (Blackspot Books), and Not Very Quiet (Recent Works Press). Born and raised in Ontario, Canada, she now lives in Michigan, United States.
