From Space, We Still Look Blue

by Kasandra Larsen

In Louisiana, an expert: we’re not seeing catastrophic impacts.
In China, a submerged fireman can’t move:

he’s pulled from toxic soup,
dripping ooze. I don’t drive, but I’m surrounded

by plastic, so I’m sucking up my share of crude, too. We’re pigs
wallowing in goo. In Canada, a pipeline rupture

sends a warning shot, a letter across the border;
in the news, we see strangely camouflaged geese, silent,

dark as eclipsed sky. Down south, fortunate pelicans still fly;
we count the ones that die

while searching for some secluded bit of planet
where black gold hasn’t reached: maybe some icy beach

in the Arctic? But no, Shell’s there already. At the opposite pole,
sludge frequently flows from cruise ships that have crashed

or sunk. We’re drunk
on fuel, folks, distilling destruction, acting globally

as only humans can. We can agree, at least, that hope
is not a plan. For most, though,

hope’s the closest thing they have.
Denial drips from its practitioners
in black.