Ghost Species
it’s been a bad summer for tomatoes,
too wet, and yesterday, i read ecosystems
are moving north, shrubland branching
into tropical forest. one day red earth in georgia
will never freeze again. what is a transforming
if not a turning outward of common reality?
your voice on the phone is water
it spreads across dry land.
you are talking about ghost species,
creatures who have gone extinct;
each vanishing a full universe
of haunting. i drink wine
in the shower and cry, think
how every night the sky
turns a different hue of pink, how my love
still gallops to your words, of my cat
finding a forgotten string and jabbing
at it as though her tiny heart
could hold so much joy, as if she can grasp
everything too slippery for her.
what are we if not already failures?
what are we if not already stewards?
there is a song each morning
wind spreading dreams through leaves
and in spring people give
their neighbors seedlings
to propagate, offerings of starch and hope.
when disaster opens us, will we muffle
our hearts? or learn the language
of tenderness and loss? say, a ghost
is another word for love lingering.
you and i, we read books
about doom while we slung late shifts
at the soup kitchen, dishing true warmth.
the woman on line, crying, caring
for her dying father. to say change
is to say, see one another,
even as soil slips out beneath our feet.
Zoey Rose is a writer living in NYC on Lenape land. She loves a good walk, a good dance party, talking about feelings, harm reduction, and her two cats
The Marbled Sigh 