If this is to be the last poem written,
Then this is not a poem,
It is a manifesto for living.
Help your children see the detail
Barricading good from evil,

Prevent from the age of seven
The colicky fissure which cracked through us.
Do not remove yourself
From a race to the snowbound summit,
Simply for the winners’ flags

Are fixed in red and yellow.
Sometimes people are stronger
From surviving conflict and wars,
But yours left you feeling weaker,
And sapped your resolve for the cause.

You foresaw the denuding of Greenland,
Three or so decades ago, and knew
Whose bellies kept Blame well-warmed,
You heard the Arctic splintering shores
Long before green-washing formed.

You could see a disease in the tallow
Contemporary tenants were chasing,
You felt in your heart the direction of travel
And disowned a journey debasing
Love and landscapes once hallow.

Pathologists have patrons who barter;
They open us up and in shorthand notate
The contents of stomach, the slender wrists;
I told you my house is not on the market,
Nor its contents of Soul and State.

I would want you to know, last reader,
That you had such company you could not see,
Lumbering ghosts through the mud
In our bodies, breathing our blood;
I could not remove the memories

Of the bite in my thigh
Where mine would have me be late;
There will be no insects with wings remaining.
When they win, all Karma will be eradicated.
The rest since then is Fate.

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