McKibben warns us loud and clear.
Stop pussyfooting about climate change.
Say, shout, shriek, yell Climate Crisis.
My friend makes sandwiches for 400 firefighters
near the Dufur, Oregon wildfire . . . and comes back
later to cook dinner. She knows: Climate Crisis.
Another friend in LA with asthma says
I can’t breathe and she is choking,
Climate Crisis.
When you dowse your spring-flooded living room studs
with bleach, splash it heavy and roar:
Climate Crisis.
When the people who have known one island
where their ancestors lived and died take a boat
to somewhere else, their chant is Climate Crisis.
When you’re hot and the heat breaks all records,
you know that elders and babies are dying,
and you weep, Climate Crisis, Climate Crisis.
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who is witnessing her state setting a record for the number of 90 degrees in one summer. Her most recent collected poetry is How I Learned To Be White (Antrim House, 2018).
