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The Dome

By Elis Montgomery in Issue Twelve, December 2023

Molten air stifles, sea-thick
and as sickening. Pocked stones
become bowls I water with
weighted limbs. Drained pith, dry bones

in this park. All beyond thirst.
You could drink first but your eyes
are unseeing like they’re dried
open. One more fried sunrise

(what rainforest?) then drowning:
leaded wings won’t let you fly
when need floods you. You won’t eat,
beak gaped at the heat-dome sky

like a young crow pining for
her mother. I am not her.
Will you trust what I’ve brought when
I am gone? Then drink water,

please, in her name if not mine.
More are in line for aid: squirrels
reel, heat-drunk, trying to stand.
Sun-muddled, the land now whirls

to my eyes. None of you trust
me. It’s just me. I can’t cool
parched elders behind locked doors
so let me pour you this pool.

(When the dome lifts and we hear
the death list this year, please let
no lives from this park be logged.)

Then fog: rain returns and yet—

© 2023 Elis Montgomery

Elis Montgomery

Elis Montgomery is a speculative fiction writer from Vancouver, Canada. She is a member of SFWA and Codex. When she’s not writing, she’s usually hanging upside down in an aerial arts class or a murky cave. Find her there or at elismontgomery.com.

Poetry by Elis Montgomery
  • The Dome