After Deepwater Horizon, 2010
It’s all right. My species ruined
our planet, too. Chewed it, gouged it,
stewed it in any of a dozen flavors
of port, then ate it on toast. When all
was said and done, damn near
a billion of us stood back to back
on a tiny island, surrounded
by floating towers of plastic—
skyline of blues, greens, yellows, reds
bleaching in sunlight, and squadrons
of tern-like creatures circling above us,
squawks deafening. Certainly our
futures market seemed bleak.
And there you are with a hole
in your mantle, puncture wound
caused when you were about to
carve the turkey and someone
knocked into you (though it sure
looked like suicide). Mercutio-like
final gesture: your ironic observation
that at least now you wouldn’t
have to scrub the roasting pan.
You do your best to halt the black
hemorrhage, pinching your side
between thumb and forefinger.
Good luck. If planets had viscera,
yours would be splashing out
with the rupture, uncoiling
on the surface like so many miles
of crude-soaked boom. But you’re not
the first: think of my species, scads
and hordes, all our mouths forming
Os of disbelief, all of us noticing
in the plastic bergs the wrappings
of our favorite brand of breakfast bar.
Maybe it’s in the nature of change
not to come until it’s too late—
but then it does come, and we shut
our mouths, and someone starts to
scare off a few of the terns by
screaming and waving his arms.
This poem first appeared in Space Traveler (University of Tampa, 2014).
—
Benjamin S. Grossberg’s books of poetry include My Husband Would (University of Tampa, 2020), winner of the 2021 Connecticut Book Award, and Sweet Core Orchard (University of Tampa, 2009), winner of a Lambda Literary Award. He also wrote the novel, The Spring before Obergefell (University of Nebraska, 2024), which was selected by Percival Everett for the 2023 AWP Award Series James Alan McPherson Prize. Ben is Director of Creative Writing at the University of Hartford.
