Already so long ago,
we drove to Oregon
in summer, gawking
at the raw umber stalks
of corn that spanned
an expanse of heat-rot
in the country’s gut,
dead yet stood up,
radio towers hanging
onto the blighted sky
in a bombed-out city.
Each new Spring asks
the question of when,
not whether. Smoke
blurs the horizon
as it draws closer,
but we have no answer
when we have no choices.
We will run and hope
whatever is left behind
will find a way to us.
This is what it will be:
subtle then sudden,
slow then absolute.
In shock, without
solace, who will be
able to name the first
things we did?
The garden plot
you tilled by hand
when we were young.
The lyre I played,
carved from a dead
tree I can’t name.
Those ways we now feel
will become old ideas:
the leisure we cherish;
what it’s like to lie still
in the heat; sweat
tasting sweet in warmth,
not scorch. Such things
will have no meaning
when we’re fleeing.
We’ll forget our words
for river because only
canyons will remain.
Maybe by then we’ll
have new words for
lost things; maybe
a new way to grieve
what we’ve forgotten.
Ethan Milner is a writer an a licensed clinical social worker in Oregon, providing psychotherapy at a school for youth with special needs. His work has most recently appeared in Yes, Poetry, Memoir Mixtapes, and The Scores (UK). He can be found tweeting @confident_memes and at ethanwritten.com.