they’re back this year

vermilion shoots
burst from the soil

we didn’t burn deep enough
when we cleared the land
native roots are tough


strange feathers

beneath each hen
the orb that killed her

desperate for protein
we never heard
them hatch


some women

their bellies swelling
crave native fruits

ordinary foods
are ashes in their mouths
their sunken eyes


corner crack

the tiniest vine
finds a way

two days with our lasers
recovered the structure
at least


forests do the wave

as if flea bitten 
the planet twitches

each epicenter 
closer than the last
something come


blood warm rain

we watch the heavens
bruise & darken

this thunder a language
our brains lack
a tongue for


eye-corner motion

I almost shot
my brother today

we’re all jumpy since
the mayor disappeared
her unfired gun 


tree shadows at dusk

the ones we never planted
not-trees / not-shadows

closer each evening
when we opaque our windows
some have faces


this world is not ours

native microbes 
make moves we can’t counter

growths appear
on fabric on skin
things fall apart


parasites in flight

ancestral vessel
savaged salvaged savior

native to nowhere
wishing on next star

David C. Kopaska-Merkel & Ann K. Schwader