Silence chauffeurs loss,
I call it—God—
another conundrum unsolved.
A discreet chill lingers to speak,
a farewell from the arctic concludes:
if millions of anything dies
it isn’t equally tragic.
Primates are most vile;
what could Jane Goodall see
in chimpanzees?
Maybe as humans, we are of different genera, unclassified
chain-links. With the real miracles
being exploited, pillaged, gulped whole—
I know we are a natural disaster
in action.
I attempt to distract my son from us,
squabble with loose pieces
to board games—
the misfits Goodwill crochets.
It is a dishonest flail on my part.
80,000 children are starving in Yemen;
I find three versions of Candyland
at my local garbage store,
not the edition from my childhood.
The characters on the cards speak with their demented eyes, marked
four ninety-nine
with enthusiasm and missing parts.
Once they were drawn docile,
nostalgic shades of imagination,
an assurance of safe nonsense.
Today, they are decomposing in landfills or have become debris inside
of beached whales.
My mother tags me in articles
depicting graphic images.
But never does anything more.
We stare on and scroll down.
