why the earth cannot make its way towards you
after Joanna Klink
There are people who can’t feel
a forest. Won’t awaken
to the great mathematical powers in the pine resin sheathing
over a seed. In the preservation
of squirrels. The sinews that store movement.
Kinetic powers of a fawn’s bright legs beating
against ground. There are some who have not felt
sun on the top of their toes as they hoof
over the granite rock to cool their kneecaps
in the eternity of a river.
People that have not felt
the bull trout slip alongside their ankles
or seen the tadpole transform
in the yellow halo of a pool’s shallow edge.
Those who can’t remember
the sound of the wind or the voice
of the granite as it crashes from the top of a hill.
Haven’t calculated the cost
of so many waterfalls
drying up, so many deer losing their footing.
Men who feel the fire ant crawl
over the skin do not understand
the miracle of venom—alkaloids, proteins designed to protect
a whole colony from invaders. Cannot see
how they too are part of everything
that aerates the dirt, that delivers seed to the soil.
They will only feel the slap
of their hand against an insect’s red body
and complain about the sting,
without feeling
the burn of a larger star extinguishing
against their arm.