"Pacific Northwest Continues to Bake Beneath ‘Heat Dome’" - NY Times
I want to smash a violin on the tree
it was made from. To soak up the blood
of martyrs with my eyes, die a glorious
death and live on, weeping, sweating
blood. It's 118 in Siberia. The Earth
too hot to kiss, I leave on your stomach
what saliva remains, a sacrifice to the angry
clouds. All is heat, rising. I evaporate,
a drop of salt plucked from the sea, a fish
reeled into the sun. Let my raw desire sear
like flesh, golden-brown, for you to savor,
then swallow. How else are we to survive?
We huddle in the shade our bodies cast,
marvel at what we've done to ourselves.
Shall we take a final swig of one another
and make love until we faint? When we
come to, we'll mourn the rivers, gather
up the scorched trees, fashion a great violin
--play a sonata for the unborn.
