“The vast nature of the [Gulf oil] spill means scientists are able to locate only a small fraction of the dead animals.”
– ‘Sea Life Migrates to Avoid Spilled Oil,’ Associated Press, June 2010
~
They lie down in the bath of oil.
Turtle once of bronze sand.
Heron once of auroral sky.
Shark once of sapphire silk.
I clean as much as I can,
I scrub in white jumpsuit,
but they die,
deep back in the marsh mud,
between the gaping greens,
they sleek away to hide,
sink in the slow of the sludge,
filling every mouth, ear, eye.
~
I thought I knew them.
Oh those nights
they shook the neon phosphorescence
from their skin as they fed!
But I never really did.
Cackling formaldehyde deep
in my burnt orange tent,
lantern shattering blue.
All I offer now are wings entombed.
What do I do?
I pray—what else can I do?—
for bacteria, yes,
Psycrophilic,
cold-loving army,
I call on you,
there is a sudden feast at depth:
Bloom.
~
What can I do
for those strange citizens
that once flashed
like blades through?
What can I do
when I’ve blown open
my own core,
and find that nothing
but black tar spews?
