Disaster
YouTube proves me right. There is a place
called Greenland—turquoise warped, whiter
than white. He wants to see a glacier—
not too long, not too much information.
Breakfast fare for a 4-year-old.
The diagram stirs into motion: See how
water burrows back to the ocean’s primal
warmth. It’s taken forever, but the last
kilometers rush home. I tell him
this is why we are green activists.
He hugs the loving tree, ever literal.
My first betrayal was birthing him.
Now I stretch the truth: dig dirt,
taps tight, lights off—about as good
as neem oil for cabbage worms.