a poem by Natasha Deonarain
On the convex edge of horizons, many miles
across this bone-flat desert, dust pulls
a Navajo blanket around her
200,000 years gestation and still no birth;
only our uncommon let down.
When will a new age begin? We’ve
waited with empty stomachs for a second coming
to tear down these walls,
let a little sun
shine onto our drying husks, entangled cobwebs
brushed from every bordered zone.
Maybe we should recycle our own hot air,
or wipe out these carbon footprints so no one can follow,
seal the deal fair and green.
One day, this tsunami will eat us all.
Some day, we’ll become two-toned geckos cutting through dirt,
scaling promises we cannot see.
Billions of bickering voices echo from
electronically-boxed canyons and in the distance, the
muted sounds of a rattler
it’s time to move on.