Estimates
Miche Hu
Google tells me, there are
between 5 and 135 wars, faces we cannot see,
caught in a quiet ravaging.
And near there, missiles arch toward the sky
like a lover’s back in an ever peaking ecstasy.
And somewhere, in the South China Sea,
sand from an island the shape of
a dagger pulls to the ocean floor.
Corals caught in a second drowning.
Ship these bodies, thrown in the tides,
to the shores of all our islands,
half a world apart.
Their ghosts sit on headstones, idle
children in wait with tired ankles
crossed over strangers’ names.
Like a promise
Like an empty
To be wondered
Where are our dead and dying?
If at the end,
I will remember, religion
is a great poet.
If I am following these
bleeding road veins
to the snow in Texas,
and the California fires,
I will remember, how
the moon cradles
the earth’s shadow,
each night.
238,900 miles away.
And if our flames
and floods swallow us,
the earth’s shadow, too,
will swallow
the moon.
Like swept snow
Like scattered dust
Like a white whisper
Sure to be gentle
At least, as a shadow
engulfing the moon,
we can be gentle in
our consumption.
I am only sorry
that we have
come to
This.