a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
In time
like mold in a washbasin
the plague
which we made
which we are
grew
(warmth and water)
lungs provide both
in ample measure
tents of bodies
collapsing
as in a windstorm
leg-poles bent
flaps of skin torn
death always
flies
quickly
a thousand crows
a puzzle
of sky
thin cracks of light
a map
that shows the way
to suffering.
Cities burning.
An ash-filled river.
A few humans
like vessels washed in milk
pole boats
through the river’s sludge,
careful not to touch
the water.
A woman who fed us
reduced to salt and tar.
My mother
held me to the ground,
body like a roof.
She whispered an elegy
to her fur
as it burned.
I saw the pink of dusk
on the ground
as she sheltered me.
No screens.
No buildings
No cars.
Static left the air.
As we once did
we do so again
scratching images
on the bark of trees.
A chant to stop the flood.
We’d been warned
about the current
where the hole
in the river swirled.
When arms churn
through water, we think
there’s a shore
to swim toward.
A thousand years from now
they’ll chip at layers of time
hidden in mud.
This will reveal how
our hands held the heads
of so many
beneath the waves.
Todd Davis is a former fellow of the Black Earth Institute and the author of six collections of poetry, most recently Native Species (2019) and Winterkill (2016), both published by Michigan State University Press. His writing has won the Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Bronze and Silver Awards, the Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize, the Chautauqua Editors Prize, and the Bloomsburg University Book Prize. He teaches environmental studies, American literature, and creative writing at Pennsylvania State University’s Altoona College.
©2024 Black Earth Institute. All rights reserved. | ISSN# 2327-784X | Site Admin