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