a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
The mouth of the disaster is not round.
Speaking only in verbs and often in rain.
It decided you were a dirge, it would play
you. Shooting its wind through your holes
never-ending. One tooth is the seawall,
failing. That’s for disrupting the sediment.
One tooth is the hospital roof, peeled back
like a tin lid. That’s for the animals that healed
you instead of living. Teeth for shark fin
soup, teeth for the petrochemical pinking
of sunset, teeth for crustaceans without
enough calcium to build their shells. Teeth
for the shriek that that hovers over, forcing
us to remember the coordinates of humility.
Reminding us our place in the shadows of gods.