Everyday Apocalypse

The brown tree ring
inside the coffee mug
will not clean itself.

Dish rack, when dirty,
needs the good lick
of a wet sponge.

The cat needs to be fed
twice a day, and taunted
by a string of feathers.

It’s easy to forget
I have a body
that needs me,

a neighborhood
that needs me
weaving circles through it

with my feet. Taking out garbage
is a reverent task. I scrub
the sink, sort the closet,

water down the roots of plants
it’d be easier to forget about.
Sometimes, I forget

about bull elephants roaming
across cracked savannah, ice caps
roaring into frigid boom,

polar bears drowning, floods,
fires, forests disappearing, coyotes
trotting the streets, lost

habitat. Squirrels are amazing.
Opossums shine in the night.
Hopelessness is not productive

so I imagine watering holes
expanding, and return books
to their places, strap on shoes.

The terrier pulls on the leash
to hunt ducks, tail straight back
in a line. I hear silence

in the distance, crows calling
from wire perches in fog.
There have always been

leaves falling, and children
running. The television screen
flickers. I wake for rain.

Colorado Lagoon
After Mary Oliver

I pass a few early morning walkers—
silent nod. Small purple flowers

greet me as I approach, then
a golden retriever galloping along

the small curve of sand, egret standing
on one leg under the mossy bridge,

pair of ducks gliding by. One flaps,
gains speed and flies over the dock.

The other floats under. A fish splashes
out of the water. Why? I don’t know.

The park is clean, no debris.
I dare not glance at my screen,

murky with Americans protesting
against science, sweaty mouths spitting.

I try to read the whole story. When
will we be over? What comes next?

I throw grief into the current.
One part of the story is algae.

The future follows me home
like a shadow, my throat closing,

then opening. The geese know
when to fly, land, rest—and when

it’s time to honk like all hell,
stretching an alarm across the sky.

Ode to One of Earth’s 10 Major Deserts

Oh barren, wind-swept land of sandy loam,
pockmarking over 47,000 square miles
of the earth’s cragged face—Mojave,

do you suffer without water, as we do?
I am in love with your vastness, your granite,
red, jumbo and lava rocks, stony alluvial rug

rolling without interruption toward horizon.
I have cupped creosote tea to my lips
and grimaced at its pungent medicine.

I have seen the bat flutter at dusk, antelope squirrel
scooping up crumbs, common gopher snake
curled into itself. The desert spiny lizard tries

to teach me stillness, but I have a hard time listening.
Most people would choose electric shock
over 15 minutes in an empty room alone.

I am terrified of you. I have felt the startle of slither
underfoot, heard the rattle of fear, gotten lost in you,
water bottles hollow. DO NOT DIE TODAY—

reads every entrance sign to Joshua Tree National Park,
warning city-dwellers of the way you celebrate August
with swelling organs, red-hot skin, throbbing, dizziness,

nausea, body temperatures rising uncontrollably.
I visit, but I don’t stay. I drive three hours back
to the city where I never have to be thirsty.

Fresh water routed from the Colorado River colors
Southern California lawns a verdant green. Meanwhile,
an area larger than South Africa has been cleared of forests

worldwide. A storm captures you in its whip across the sky,
and we all drink from the clouds. To the west, Big Bear
is frozen with snow. We might not notice a few degrees

of difference each winter. I haven’t stopped buying plastic.
I can’t justify my footprint. As much as I think I love you,
I tremble outside below freezing, am no longer

a very nice person when starving. Somewhere, a fat trout
is hauled out of a mountain stream. I catch it in the net
of my mouth, peel back the flesh. It tastes like a warning.

About the Author

Nancy Lynée Woo spends her free time hitching a ride to the other side of maybe. She is an MFA candidate at Antioch University, the recipient of fellowships from PEN America, Arts Council for Long Beach and Idyllwild Writers Week, and the author of two chapbooks. She is also the creator of Surprise the Line poetry workshops. Find her cavorting around Long Beach, California, and online at nancylyneewoo.com.