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’ 


We 17 people,

With very little in common

Set up our 3 cleaning stations 

Exactly as we did yesterday 

Hoping to save,

A few.


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. 

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