A journal of art + literature engaging with nature, culture, the environment & ecology

Two poems by Adrienne Pilon

Adrienne Pilon (North Carolina-California, USA)

 

Plague No. 1

 

It starts in the curve of a wave, in the rock hollows, the shore’s edge.

Steel gray water streaks vermillion under gray clouds. Gulls soar 

low over the blood-water, feast on the fish that come to lie 

white-bellied on the surface. Then the gulls lie belly up, 

and the mammals come for the fish and the gulls 

and the other dying birds. The shoreline becomes a morgue: 

bodies pile one atop the other. Dolphin, seal, fish, bird.

Crabs crawl out to feast, and flies, too, until all lie in deep repose.

The water shines crimson and then green. Maggots crawl out

from the corpses and die. In a story of many sunderings, 

in this one the sea glows at night, gives us a light 

to tell the tale by, shows one way the end comes. 

Conger

An ice shelf about the size of Rome has completely collapsed in East  Antarctica within days of record high temperatures, according to satellite data. 

—The Guardian, March 24, 2022

 

Honeymooning in the Eternal City, we walked from our hotel 

to the Colosseum, stood in the ruins that spanned 

centuries, shouted to one another across the vast 

amphitheater. Its edges have crumbled, disintegrated 

from earthquakes and neglect. Inside the Pantheon

I stood nearly alone in that slanting, calculated light of ages.

We strolled along the Tiber, crossed that atmospheric river,

took in the narrow winding streets of Trastevere 

with its bars and cafes, streams of students flowing past,

crossed the river again, stood in the giant oval 

of Piazza Navona where strolling musicians circumnavigated

the fountain. On the one-hundredth of the Spanish steps,

we found an empty spot—a surprise—for a photo. 

At Palazzo Borghese we watched Daphne transforming 

into a tree, witnessed Persephone wrestling away 

from Pluto, forever struggling to escape her fate. 

Did she see any sign of what might be coming? 

Sometimes things may happen faster than we think.

Even Persephone is crumbling 

at a rate imperceptible to my small eye.

 

Adrienne Pilon is a writer, editor, and teacher. Recent work appears in The Linden Review, Minyan, HASH and elsewhere. She is on staff at BoomerLitMag and Kitchen Table Quarterly and is a booster of literary magazines everywhere. 

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