Flying north from Atlanta
to Richmond, we’re spared
glimpses of Wilmington, now
an island, and the roofs
of Florence, not spared by her
namesake, trying to tread water.
Yet all the rivers, running red
with clay, spill out of their banks –
like bloody, clawing fingers,
like countless ruptured arteries.
We turn away from warnings
that the Earth
is bleeding out.
Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, with a genius older brother destined for NASA, a ghost, and a yard full of cats. She graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. Now retired, she lives in Kansas City, Missouri, where she serves on the Emeritus Board of The Writers Place. Her latest poetry collection is Waking on the Moon (available on Amazon). Please visit her at alariepoet.com.