BY GREELEY RIORDAN

Another way of saying I am still myself.
Breathe deep and remember the dread huddled in the
Corner, mouth dripping. It looks terrified. There is a
Dead thing clutched in its jaws, some little bird,
Elegant bones shattered and wings loose-hanging.
Fighting the dread comes in turns with loving it.
Gentle-voiced, laying on my stomach; I say, Look,
Here, Maui has ‘alalā again; look, see how
Iberian lynx aren’t endangered anymore?
Just give it a chance, I tell the dread. Not everything has been
Killed. The dread doesn’t believe me, always, but often it does —
Love keeps the bird in its dripping
Mouth. I lay my cheek on the carpet and tell the dread,
Nobody’s been right about the world ending yet, you know.
Once upon a time, when my mom was a little girl, the toilet
Paper factories changed the rivers’ colors. Now I cannot
Quite remember which river used to burn. 2,100 years ago,
Romans stared up at the sky and thought the world was burning —
Somewhere in New Jersey, people look to the sky and see
Twinkling stars and blinking drones and light pollution.
Underneath my feet, a hundred years ago, a toad crawled in
Vibrant green moss. Now, a daddy long legs, delicate and
Wispy, crawls across my screen. Musk runs
Xitter into the ground and buys the election; I tell the dread, 47
Years ago, smallpox died out for good. There’s so much good here —
Zits and all, dead bird and all, dread and all — I’m glad we’re here.