Prose-poem in response to reports that the Pacific Ocean is dying
Your surges
lulled me to sleep. Your tantrums kept
me awake. Sunlight still shimmers from you as from taffeta, moonlight
still paints you luminous and silver.
Standing at your deathbed I watch the
moon-moved swells push your dying weight out and back. Once, your breath moved within those living
depths.
Where have all the seabirds gone, the gull
and tern, who, skimming your surface, found in your depths a bountiful buffet?
Beneath the waves, whales are perplexed by unfamiliar tumors. Along your beaches, seals struggle their way
ashore to give birth to dying young. Sea
stars turn to mush: “Arms twist like contortionists, suckers peel from rocks,
their bodies melt away.”
Experts shake their heads: “Like a crime
scene” (Oregon marine biologist). “Scene from a horror film” (Seattle KCTS
special correspondent). From kelp to
krill--plankton, jellies, turtles, otters, dolphin--the food chain is broken,
ill, mauled, bleeding. Where there was
colorful complexity, now there is only dirt.
In fish restaurants from Nome to del
Fuego, the elegant convey forkfuls of Fukushima to their rich mouths.
How can I let you go, my favorite ocean?
As a child, I peered at tiny crabs, their world your tide pool. Accompanied by porpoises, we sailed your
trackless seas. We aimed harpoons at
sharks, drew albatrosses close with breadcrumbs to capture massive wingspreads
on mere film, hauled dripping buckets of jellyfish to gaze at their translucent
grace. At night your living
phosphorescence awed us, swirling its deep white furrow in our wake.
If you die will all else follow? Manmade debris, pollutants, the daily toxic
flow infusing nuclear decay into your veins, sweep death around our trembling
world. Gone the teeming species, gone the novelty, gone the brilliance and
variety,
gone the mystery,
gone.
Jessica
Reynolds Renshaw
No comments:
Post a Comment