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I want to talk to you about the exquisite labour of bone pins—
but the Arctic is on fire.
People say, you’re doing so well, even though I’d been saying goodbye slowly for years—
but how small is familial grief when the Arctic is on fire.
Wisteria is a tonic for women’s strength in the face of heartbreak—
but where will it grow now that the Arctic is on fire?
The internet is handsome you say—
even as I watch satellite plumes and camera footage of the Arctic on fire.
A bulb is a storage organ of life—
but where will bulbs burst when the Arctic is on fire?
I became supplicant to a religion of my own devising—
but what use my earth praise now that the Arctic is on fire?
Birds have leant in and sharpened me over the years—
but where will they live now that the Arctic is on fire?
If you boil a cocoon in hot water you will kill the pupae inside—
but what use are tendered threads when the Arctic is on fire?
The economic spice of white pepper continues to rise—
but what sense lies in the production line of production when the Arctic is on fire?
The broadcast may be suspended—
but who has time to attend to the loneliness of the mind when the Arctic is on fire?
You are ink and dye and fragrance—
but how can I be contemplating love when the Arctic is on fire?
Brava, Robyn. A perfect — if harrowing — refrain. Would that more poets awaken to this crisis.
Greg Bell