Is this a looking in the mirror,
a waking up and admitting
we’re all so fucked?
Fucked as in the exhaustion
of the final lap, fucked as in
the permanent loss of the Bison,
fucked as in gas masks and space suits?
They say the glaciers are melting,
but this is not a poem about global warming.
The glaciers are melting
because we are fucked.
Take, for example,
the last bite of a very good rum cake.
Who will eat it?
And when it is gone,
what will be left to share?
Or almost nothing.
Consider the crumbs.
Once they are gone,
we are fucked again.
In a dream, someday, we will remember
breathing or hurricanes or
how to say I love you and mean it.
This poem originally appeared in that paragon of the virtuous city, Volume 5 of The Ampersand Review.
Jen McClung is a Pushcart-nominated poet, a finalist in the Creative Nonfiction/W.W. Norton Program-Off, and an avid fiction writer as well. Her work appears in journals like The Cartographer Electric! and Hayden’s Ferry Review, and in anthologies like TalkingImageConnection’s Floating Worlds and Skinny Rabbit Press’ If Solitude Inspires. In addition to her writing, Jen is a singer/songwriter with two albums and a long list of live performances, and several of her paintings can be found at jenmcclung.blogspot.com.