Dear Anthropocene

art by Thomas Cole 1832 courtesy of the MET Museum

by Karen Rigby

I’m tired of the Chanticleer’s pyramidal blooms,
the inedible pear tree lining city boulevards

only because their branches don’t break
as easily as others do. What use is ornamental

beauty with no syrup to sink your teeth into?
Even in Greece the ochre haze of another fire.

Every burn pile demands a new emergency.
Are there more arsonists now? The tree’s

bisque porcelain climbs but I’ve run out
of metaphors for splendor. A river floods

its banks. The foundation of a house shears
into the current. Skirts bell over black water.

In the taxonomy of desire even honeyeaters lose
birdsong when they can’t find enough of their number.

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