Yeah, I get it, you poets of yore—
you've got your virgin forests, hummocks and swards,
mountains and oceans and mist and foam.
I, too, see an island out my front window:
a chicane raised and strewn with rock and gravel,
serving as the median between northbound
and southbound cars from the library down the block.
I, too, see forest hues of deepest green
and rich earthy tones of black and brown:
they are reflected in the colors of the recycling bins
in driveways down the alley, waiting
like lonesome lovers for their men to come
and lift them, open them, fulfill them—
then leave them wanting again, for another two weeks.
From your high vantage point you speak with awe
of looking out and down upon the spectacle of Nature,
to behold God looking back, revealed in all His glory,
sunbathing nude in every valley, kissing every stream;
while I stand looking out my window,
attempting to avoid direct eye contact
with my neighbors in their curtainless condos
straight across the street.
Normally, I would tolerate your arboretums of language,
your botanical metaphors, your pastoral poetry;
but today great men are being buried,
books are being banned,
there is talk of annexing nations,
love is being parsed and threatened
and is likely to be outlawed, again.
I just can't wax eloquent today.
I need real and raw.
Your landscapes are burning,
and I'm choking on the ashes of the flowers.
Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a gay poet and writer in the Des Moines area. His work has appeared in Variant Lit, Five Minutes, Leaf, Spellbinder, and others. Mark worked for many years as a Mental Health Technician in a locked psychiatric unit. He has advanced degrees in marriage & family therapy, health information management, and music. Connect with him @MarkHPoetry.
