In Which Woolly Mammoths Save the World, Starting with Siberia, Because Permafrost is Melt and Carbon is Release

 

First, a reliquary:

Collect the bones of the mammoth,

delivered onto the shore

by the soak cycle of thawing tundra,

rinsed clean by the lapping frigid lake,

and swaddled in a jumble of reeds

on a pebbled shore.

Second, bioethics and cloning:

Something something DNA,

scientists, test tubes, maybe

a centrifuge and an elephant, I guess.

Wait ten years. A mammoth is not

a velociraptor, so don’t worry

about any of that.

Third, intermodal transit:

Carefully place brand-new,

sedated mammoths into slings

and hoist them high enough

so their fur-fringed foot pads

don’t drag along the tree line

and bring the helicopter down.

Fourth, implied consent:

Wake them gently with caresses

on the tundra overgrown with saplings

hoarding particles of heat like gold,

coax mammoths onto the spongy ground

barely able to contain their weight.

(Consider – giant snowshoes to spread out

their ungainly mass?)

Fifth, unionize:

After a good long drink at the lake

through supple bristled trunks, while peering out

of eyes fringed with lashes curtained against the snow –

show them how to trample the trees, strip the leaves,

leave the tundra treeless, cooling the earth’s

fevered brow.

Sixth, pray:

Though it be zaprescheno, pray.

The Fourth Generation of Monarchs Remember the Future

Three generations of monarchs

unfurl their wings

right where they emerge,

dazed,

to mate for hours while the world pitches and yaws,

dusk to dawn –

six weeks spent locked

in an off and on fluttering embrace,

drifting in circles of lazy lust

just along overgrown highways

of the driftless area

(Trempeleau, Pepin, Eau Claire)

in endless summer back yards where

the glaciers or fires came through

(Marinette, Peshtigo, Brule)

disheveled females breaking away

to secure tiny pearls of hope

to the flat green ears of milkweed plants

one at a time

until there are hundreds –

like beacons in the fog,

like solstice lanterns,

like constellations

by which tiny winged boats are steered.

But the fourth generation wakes,

and though

no note with directions

has been left on the kitchen table,

no family Bible with halting names of three generations scrawled –

they squint their eyes at the barely perceptible

narrowing angle of the sun,

they tilt their heads to listen

to the slight stuttering

of the milk running through the milkweed,

and untutored,

uncaffeinated,

unpacked,

without thermos or podcast or even a hat,

they set their antennae to the wind,

and remembering the future,

not knowing the past,

fly away

into the

once again

unknown.

The Jade Rabbit 2 Tells Me My Fortune

 

i.

I came to Earth in the Summer of Love,

September 1969, just after Apollo 11 carried

Neil and Buzz to the proper side of the moon,

(the one she’s shown to us from the start). They left

bootprints all across her face.

This morning, almost as an afterthought,

NPR tells me that the Chinese have put a rover

on the dark side of the moon, Jade Rabbit 2 sending

photos of her knobby bare backside to us

via satellite.

ii.

After the funeral in December

I am on my knees, sorting through

the official papers – birth, divorce, death certificates,

report cards from 1952, photos of girls in stiff dresses and ringlets,

picnics on the Michigan grass beside a Model T;

but there are also things from the far side

(not always in darkness but never shown to us,)

never-seen photos and notes in the margins of the party menus:

“She brought an angel food cake, but no one touched it,” and

“We waited, but he never showed.”

iii.

What do you do with transmissions from

the far side, when the jade rabbit scurries to the side

that has forever been turned away? What do we do when we learn

how the truth has lain along, wondrous and terrible and banal, when

we’d only been trusted with the light?

(Meanwhile, I turn,

again and again and again,

so that I face you,

as though my secrets

will not someday be scattered like clover, like blood

in the bright green grass.)

 

 

https://www.cnn.com/2019/01/02/health/china-lunar-rover-far-moon-landing-intl/index.html