POETRY

Lest We See, a Poem for Biodiversity Lost

Scribe Writing Prompt: A Poem for Wildlife Populations

WWF publication reveals an average decline of 69% in species populations since 1970. While conservation efforts are helping, urgent action is required if we are to reverse nature loss. — HOME | WWF (panda.org)

Lest We See

I try to imagine it: 69% of my body, gone waking up in the morning missing a portion of my face, my brain matter, my limbs, a truncated circulatory network

how the heart then beats, where the blood pumps to (?) when artery, when vein connect to blankness devoid of need, devoid of use, ambulatory vacancies tethered to nothingness

would I move, with any kind of grace, to the cabinet with the coffee cups? would I stumble and drag with stumps where my feet used to be? would I be aware of the missing parts of me? neurological shortcomings, a NEW! negligent design, our own negligent decline

the crackle and drag of humans to their kitchens, as clumsy and instinctual as thousands of baby sea turtles scraping toward the sea I take a sip of coffee and contemplate the ratio of coffee to creamer

this season, the human season, passing as a plague upon the earth — shall we be the season of storms that wipe away the coasts of our skin? the old-growth forests of our veins and rolling mountainous peaks of neurological pathways — shall we lose our way and suffer the same end as they?

I think of the earth-source, the Divine center of ecological networks, simmering as time — is time a mechanism of ours, or theirs? — passing beneath the footprints of humans, quick and mindless as the turnover of seasons releasing a deep earthen sigh

who decides what species, what colors, what songs are erased? who decides where the blood goes at the end of a vascular network, severed just short — useless as rivers that flow in circles, never making it to the sea, or trees without their limbs, or the insects of earth navigating with no antennae?

aimless, as the drift of clouds, in a sky with a glass ceiling hopeless, as the circular sink of leatherbacks clothed in net and Styrofoam, disinherited, as shellers gathering tulips, moonshell, conchs, trumpets, filled with cigarette butts and ashen decay

shall we not see? 69% of the oceans —drifting into paintings, history, social media backlogs, memory?

Tell me what’s on your mind — Meta

who, then would feed the Earth? who would give nutrients to sea wolves and black bear, to carry on pad and instinct into the heart of the forests? in their place — the open space, the dwindling of coppice, of troop, of flock, of fruit what hashtags shall take their place?

NIKON! On Sale! Click Here! Great for Nature Viewing and Hiking!

shall we spy with our birding binoculars, celebrate the shine and roundness of bottle caps and plastic, shaping the breasts of birds? spot the glare of glitter on the wings of bees?

and then clink our glasses, thinking We are so much more important than these!

shall entire forests take up legs, fling themselves into the sea? political slogans to explain:

Oh, a NEW! Earth! Just Look! Pristine! Clean! Well-manicured! Vote for me!

we nod, check off the boxes, the calendar reminders, adrift upon the Earth, trembling on her axis, loose, untethered, pulling back the lips of her oceans, quaking, stirring, storms rising out of her womb like an angry SCREAM! no one can hear

how can we hear without 69% of our ears?

biodiversity moves, cells of the earth and sea, nutrients passing cell to cell, sea wolf to forest floor, salmon spawnings to bear to cub, to soils, back to streams

just as our breath

— once the oxygenic biological duty of a baobab tree thousands of miles from you and me —

passes through our lungs and into the smile of another, but we, sealing our lips to the rims of our cups, we try not to see

we try not to see. the less we see, the more we can breathe

This poem was a response to the following prompt:

Thank you for reading. Poet Christina M. Ward is the author of three poetry collections: Organic, Fireflies, and Verse by Candlelight.