The New World.

The New World.
The airstrip is bare and the low lakes on the fields
are the colours of dimes. He feels worthless, like stale air,
and part of his wish coming true, to see earth die,
but the woman quips, life is a journey, and leading him on,
says she brought a letter along with her to prove it,
but hasn’t opened it because gum’s stuck to the lines
where you’re supposed to seal the envelope with your tongue
and it tastes like syrup and, she thinks, cock, too,
except she’s a romantic, she claims, and sometimes
she gets out on the wing and watches as the plane tips
into the tips of the corn field. Love is a slippery slope, she says,
when he finally forces himself to ask, does she love him.
Of course, there’s no corn here now, just alder and herbicide
but she locates a tree to hold as if greeting it, or comforting it.
It’s the tree that explains her silence to anyone around her
who would listen, including a man on the Internet
she’s replying to as he sleeps on the couch across from her
after days and nights of digging dirt from her front yard
for the new garden and the climbing rose bush
under the window she said would be their room,
but which he’s planted corn from seeds they left stuffed
in an envelope, instead, because that’s what
the First Nations taught us Europeans would need to survive,
whilst discovering ways in which to kill any new world.

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