Into the Forest

Not old growth 

Not thousand-year-old trees charred by fire  missing limbs large-girthed  deep-rooted and sturdy still   Not old growth  decimated by humans  planting bones where white pine once flourished   Hear horses hooves pounding   scattering  dirt   leaves  terror    their wild eyes    ancient   these warhorses  See   iron-clad machines  grinding dirt  leaves   plowing trees   bodies  Wait for drones spinning  cluster bombs  crouching   serene   modern marvels  

Not old growth   this forest  

but  popple   birch  maple  young and slender  swayed by wind breathing a sigh or fierce  pushing its own path into this forest  its base of mass graves eons old  its ancient calligraphy of  wolf  yearling  owl   scavenged
slip into this forest young  fertile  moonlit  trillium  oh the hum of tree frogs  new wood  this forest  saplings rising   a rebirth until the next   the next   the next






 


Last Frontier

The sea is a vast expanse 
anchored to Earth.  Space
is a vast expanse in which
Earth is anchored.

The frontier was a place
and an idea of a place
where humans 
could work their will—

destroying what was 
determined to be useless 
or natural and thus useless,
reshaping Earth to their
idea of productive.

Space is not 
the last frontier.

I hope the sea remains
a mystery—unexplored
undeveloped
until its plastic end.





 




Persistent Memories of 

Before, when clouds littered 
a sky brushed palest blue 
& saltwater held the whale 
singing, the jellyfish drifting 
& waves tossed fanciful shells on shore. 

Remember? That strip of sandy beach, 
	seagrass waving strands in the breeze, 
a dolphin pod, their slick backs shining 
	as they leaped through white froth, 
sting rays lolling in tidal pools 
	& the shadow of a great blue heron 
beak pointed towards a genial sun 
	as it gulped its prey? 

We heard about microplastics multiplying, 
fish turning toxic, glaciers melting. 
It seemed a fantasy but we knew, 
even then, 
	time was running out.




 




Once I watched a glacier calve—

ethereal blue splashing 
into the darker radiance
of the Inner Passage with
a thunderous voice—

a magnificent
horrifying
unnatural 
division which

we compare to 
birthing





 



Our Eden

Sloths camouflaged in fungal green hung upside down in the canopy. 
Below them brutal hummingbirds zig-zagged away 
from each other’s rapier beaks. We feasted on eucalyptus bark 
and cassia flowers, axed neem trees for medicinal oils and roots. 
					                             It was too warm for apples.

	           It was too warm for apples
but snakes infested our Eden anyway, 
seeding discontent.

Someone said let’s get rid of this jungle. I’m tired of sucking the marrow
from bird bones, sick of wearing scratchy snakeskins, hacking tangled vines.

We ordered flame throwers and bulldozers from Amazon.
They dropped through the clouds like manna for monstrous rats.
We anticipated picking gold from our teeth, 
                                                          scraping it from under our toenails,
once Earth erased of jungle bore fruit for export.

It was too warm for apples but
				     we       desired      apples.

We conjured black smoke. It blocked the sun,
chilling the air and cooling the soil. Snakes absconded.

We doused the land with chemicals. Hummingbirds drifted 
like dying embers.  Sloths dropped, raising dust.
 
Rejoicing,
we planted hectares of apple saplings. They looked like soldiers 
marching over the cleared land until
they began to wither in the sunless light and we,
					                 shivering in shorts and tees, 
                                                          craving our warm, humid breezes . . .	

________________________________________

CJ Muchhala’s work has appeared in anthologies, print and on-line publications and art / poetry installations. She has been nominated for the Best of the Net award and twice for the Pushcart Prize. She lives in Shorewood, Wisconsin.