POETRY: JENNY BERKEL

LITTLE GOOSE
​
Child, what world is this?
A bee thunders past
your ear, velvet. Above, 
geese flounder long-necked
against the guillotine of sun.
Emerald beetles burrow out
of ash, flash effulgent. 
The beached arm of Ontario
laps blue-green
algae rippling a radiant
siren song. Soft as down,
the nape of your neck 
nests into my palm. 

Perhaps the end
of the beginning. A gossamer
thread hanging precarious
across the path. Where to walk
with you, somewhere that stays.
The water taps its hammer hands
Into the land and blooms a sinister 
cyano crescendo.The bees pull 
a magic trick, disappearing 
in the span of a hand’s sleight. 
The ash, spun in larvae, grow 
weak-shadowed, and the geese
have forgotten where to go.

See: we made you
a myth, light
as a feather.

SPECIAL REPORT ON GLOBAL WARMING OF 1.5°C
 
The day you asked me what I wanted
to be when I grew up and I told you
a dog, did you know then
the world would turn
to bone?
 
Did you picture me
graduating at thirty-two, childless
in a pilling polyester gown
with years already chewing at my hair,
a cricket in my knee, the world 
whipping at catastrophe?
 
Sweating inside this spectacle,
I tap the years left
on my thigh:
one two three
four five six
seven eight nine
ten eleven twelve
years to save ourselves
from ourselves.
 
Somebody’s grandfather sobs
as his heart marches across
the stage. Pride quivers
in the jowls of apocalyptic
deadlines. Love can be,
love can be unbearable.
 
When you asked me,
did you know?

Jenny Berkel is a poet and singer-songwriter from rural Ontario. Her interests include investigating how a poem is a song and a song is a poem. She has released two albums (Here on a Wire and Pale Moon Kid) and has another one forthcoming. Her debut chapbook, Grease Dogs, was published in June 2021 with Baseline Press.