The Patience of a Tree By Thea Clarkberg Two paths diverged beneath my feet— One paved, and one muddy, off the beat. I left the cars and bustling street To find a stream, a would-be retreat. Its waters were choked with plastic and waste, Ignored by those who walked on in haste. Among the muck, an egret white Stood still, a fragile, ghostly sight. It flew away as I drew near, Its instinct sharp, its path so clear. What was that sickly sweetness in the air? The stench of death was everywhere. I saw ahead a wolf or dog, hard to tell, Its teeth gleaming white in a sunken shell. I passed it by and did not stay, But the path just stopped and fell away. Some draft of a park the city had planned— Now swallowed up by brambled land. I stood where trail met thorn and stone, Staring at trash the world disowned. The highway thundered just overhead, While the water below ran thick and dead. Oh world, I cried, what have we done? We’ve scorched the soil and blocked the sun. We pass each other, m...
Warm Hands By Thea Clarkberg In the dark of night, Fingertips on a cold glass pane. Chills the tips, warms the glass, only just. 20 floors up, I look out into the gaping void beneath me, a hellish blast of screeching sirens and glaring neon lights. Aloft above it all, this hardened world of glass and steel. I rest my forehead against these ancient grains of sand and search and search for the hands that shaped them into crystal ice. I find none. I ache for just a hint of breath, of warmth, of animal scent. I bang my head into this barrier, like a goldfish in a little bowl. I walk through structures meant to hold meaning— policies, procedures, portals— but all I feel is cold. I am met by signs, not people. By sentences without fingerprints. By answers that answer nothing. They sand off the edges of individual identity in favor of rules and repeatability. I scream into the system, but it does not echo. It absorbs. Intention is often the first thing to vanish. Someone may have poured...
"Life" is a problem set, a good-sized packet, spiral-bound with time. Question follows question, annoyingly repetitive, each asking, "How shall I live this day?" So vague, and yet each demanding an answer. Not everyone receives the same packet, though. Some get sheets with the answer in parentheses after the question, which hardly seems fair, but then again, it's not as fun to solve a problem you already know the answer to. Some don't get a reference table, and have to scramble to answer the question with whatever they can find in the recesses of their psyche. The formulas don't always work, anyway. As soon as the work is finished for one, the sheet is taken away; no time to go back and correct. It's unclear if this assignment is graded or not, so some just muddle through and fill in the blanks. Some flock to the smartest, the prettiest, or the most popular in the class and copy her answers, but there is no answer sheet, so the fruits of...
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