—article title by Gwyn Wright, via swns.com

……………..             …..Let me make light
of the situation, travel to the nearest interstellar hotel.

I don’t want to be maudlin, but I’m going to pack
all my favorite mementos of mortality—a photo
of my grandmother, the last slice of chocolate cake,
and the only shirt that makes me look like I’ve got something
going on. Believe me, I know
…………..              ……..this is serious.

There are lakes drying out, spitting up bodies and boats.
There are fires so wild they scour towns
down to foundations and loose strings of smoke.
There are Arctic sharks vacationing in the Caribbean.

……………..             …..How am I supposed to feel
about extinction when I never saw a Dodo, never
rode a Quagga, never grieved a Cry Violet bloom?

Nothing we say or feel matters,
……………              …….except right now.
I want to believe we can save what little we have left.

And if we can’t, then maybe we can
be shrunk down, like dinosaurs to birds. I know
…………….             ……it’s not that simple,

but wouldn’t it be wonderful
to give up everything for wings and a song?

David B. Prather is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag, 2019) and Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023). His poetry collection, Bending Light with Bare Hands, is forthcoming from Fernwood Press in 2024. He lives in Parkersburg, W.Va.