Rainforest
I close my eyes so that I can see it.
What we so freely eliminate. Who is
not guilty of it? We reek of paper.
Everywhere we go is paper. Our
hands are stained with paper.
Walls. What echoes from our walls.
The sweet whisper of rainforest—
even the name makes the sound of
rushing water or perhaps it’s a ghost
that haunts us. They say the dead
that did not die a peaceful death are
doomed forever to wander the earth.
But perhaps this earth is for them
already a cemetery—stacks and
stacks of flesh on a desk. Which
one belongs to which tree?
Already, we’ve traded oxygen for
so much.
Teresa Mei Chuc, "Rainforest" from Keeper of the Winds. Copyright © 2014 by Teresa Mei Chuc. Reprinted by permission of Foothills Publishing.
