Poem Without Metaphor
Christine Larusso

The doctors say there is no specific cause. No genetics to map or trace back.
The cancer living in both bodies of my cousin’s two children is spreading.
There is no known cure. The chemo doesn’t work. They will both die.
I look for explanations under the floorboards, behind locked doors.
Run the clock down with busy work, a course towards the inevitable.
It’s late but the dragonfly wants to be heard again. So I listen.
The Wilmington Oil Field is less than ten miles from where they were born.
From where they eat, pick fruit from lemon trees, dig up mud to look for bugs.
Plant watermelon seeds believing they will see next year’s crop.
Since 1932, the field has produced over 1.2 trillion barrels of oil.
We clink spoons over the broccoli and ice cream we’re eating for dinner: small joys, simple pleasures.
For a moment, I choose to believe we are being well-fed,
Focus on the resilient sprout, breaking through petroleum run-off to grow and grow and grow—
Earth’s offerings: our food and abundant life, each second richer than the last.