By Tim Kitz
We came because there are still rivers left unruined,
because there are still birds with wings unshredded by towers and wires
still deer unmangled by hoods and windshields –
still trees uncut, soil unsterile, winds unpoisoned.
We came because there are still untrapped coyotes
breaking their hearts over the moon
and we want to hear them, as we drift towards sleep,
again.
Again and again and again.
We’re getting desperate. And we don’t know what to do.
So we came by hypocritical car and seductive plane
because we have no perfect offering
because if an oil-free life were possible, we’d have nothing to protest.
We came to give back, having taken so much,
like spoiled brats trying to grow up,
like sleepwalking criminals trying to wake up,
like rapist’s remorse.
We’re scared of the future and we hate the present
and the lies that you’ve handed us, and the lives that you’ve handed us
and we’re trying to wake up but it hurts
like learning your happy childhood depended on murder,
like finding your lover hadn’t really wanted to do that
like waking up to discover your demands were killing your Mother.
We came to give back, we came to say thanks.
We came as lovers who don’t know how to woo.
This poem first appeared in the Leveller Vol.8 No. 4 (Jan/Feb 2016).
