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EXPOSURES<br />
So. What will it be? Picture it on that reel<br />
inside your head. Do you see purple-red bluffs<br />
of flame? What do you hide <strong>the</strong>re? Incandescence<br />
pushing unstoppably through troposphere? Bodies<br />
making causeways for survivors? Who slipped those<br />
pixels in? What if – instead – it’s a vixen<br />
stepping up to lick your fist? Or a circle<br />
of rags black against snow? Perhaps it’s going out<br />
for papers and finding all <strong>the</strong> pages blank.<br />
Or a cage hung out among pines – <strong>the</strong> squeamish<br />
hinge – its parrot offering <strong>the</strong> forest tea.<br />
Could it be <strong>the</strong> world shedding itself skin by skin<br />
till a snotty-faced boy picks it up – shrugs <strong>the</strong>n<br />
pockets it – because? Just because <strong>the</strong>re’s no one<br />
around and it fits so snug in his hand.<br />
POEM 11 Gaia: in Danger?<br />
© <strong>Mario</strong> <strong>Petrucci</strong> 2008<br />
From: Heavy Water: a poem for Chernobyl<br />
(Enitharmon, 2004)
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