And when the charts started coming out,
we saw that it had already been warming
our whole lives. The good old days &
how things used to be had already always
been abnormal. My people had already always
been abnormal. The smokestacks’d already
done their deed: their garrote to the neck of
mammalia, their Molotov Cocktail to amphibia.
We raise kids in lifeless yards of Scotts and
Pantone 7741. Some of us already watched the
frogs, and knew. Some of us already watched the
flocks grow small, and knew.
And when the charts started coming out, the graphics
showing red & redder, we chanted degrees to the skies:
a bedtime prayer, a request for absolution,
a plea for benediction. We were
begging for
a bandage to
put on a knee scraped
from falling while
trying to get a better
view of a praying mantis
when we were eight
because somehow we
knew we needed to study its
form, its penitent pose,
because somehow we
knew we needed an extra
Amen for every factory shift,
no rosaries enough
to make up for the Styx
forming with a
drip from
a degree here,
a degree there
until the world
is a river.
We cleaned scraped knees with water that flowed without ever touching plastic,
oh the water
that had never dreamed
of plastic.
we saw that it had already been warming
our whole lives. The good old days &
how things used to be had already always
been abnormal. My people had already always
been abnormal. The smokestacks’d already
done their deed: their garrote to the neck of
mammalia, their Molotov Cocktail to amphibia.
We raise kids in lifeless yards of Scotts and
Pantone 7741. Some of us already watched the
frogs, and knew. Some of us already watched the
flocks grow small, and knew.
And when the charts started coming out, the graphics
showing red & redder, we chanted degrees to the skies:
a bedtime prayer, a request for absolution,
a plea for benediction. We were
begging for
a bandage to
put on a knee scraped
from falling while
trying to get a better
view of a praying mantis
when we were eight
because somehow we
knew we needed to study its
form, its penitent pose,
because somehow we
knew we needed an extra
Amen for every factory shift,
no rosaries enough
to make up for the Styx
forming with a
drip from
a degree here,
a degree there
until the world
is a river.
We cleaned scraped knees with water that flowed without ever touching plastic,
oh the water
that had never dreamed
of plastic.
Mitchell Nobis lives in Metro Detroit with his family and dog. His poetry has appeared in Roanoke Review, 433, Dunes Review, and others, and is forthcoming in Porcupine Literary. He hosts KickstART Farmington’s reading series. Find him at @MitchNobis or mitchnobis.com.