Birds
Even though oil
Is said to be black gold
It still spreads death
Brilliantly, efficiently
Over, through, and across
The waves
Defying the wind
Defying mother birds’
Begging.
We 17 people,
With very little in common
Set up our 3 cleaning stations
Exactly as we did yesterday
Hoping to save,
A few.
Sleepless
Frederick is dead,
You already knew this.
The daughter that
Frederick and Catherine
Never had
Is long dead
Because of a power outage
at the fertilization clinic storing the eggs.
Catherine visits the grave of her husband Frederick. It was a foolish thing he fell at work 75 stories from the skeleton of what would become a sparkling new building.
A new building with no memory of the color of his hair, the length of his smile or his guttural laugh. Catherine resting on her bed.
Frederick’s death, according to their insurance policy, paid off the house. Catherine’s employer said: “You will always have a job with us, just come back when you can.”
Catherine, a sponge, soaking up the prominent curtains, the funeral attire strewn;`she is speechless, motionless, sleepless, endless.
Marc Isaac Potter (they/them) … is a differently-abled writer living in the SF Bay Area. Marc’s interests include blogging by email and Zen. They have been published in Fiery Scribe Review, Feral A Journal of Poetry and Art, Poetic Sun Poetry, and Provenance Journal. Their Twitter is @marcisaacpotter.
resurrectionmag.com 
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