By Preeti Talwai
Your rivers are ablaze.
Red serpentine ulcerations
streak the satellite view,
and this corner, here,
flickers like old filament.
Innocent, or arsonist?
We’ll drip retardant
into the tributaries,
flushing them ivory,
a forty percent chance
of containment — at least
for the year, but it depends:
how deep your river flows,
when it dries,
the soil underneath…
we’ve never seen
our methods fuel the blaze,
but we’ve only ever
looked through a fissure,
so what we mean is:
this disease,
an undying ember —
yours, glowing inward —
crackles in a language
we are only just learning
to hear.
Any questions?
I pick one closed fist.
They show me
both empty palms.
Preeti Talwai writes from California, where she is also a research leader in human-centered technology. Her writing has previously appeared in The New York Times, HAD, and Typehouse Magazine, among others, and has been twice-nominated for a Pushcart Prize.