If the Anthropocene had a Wedding
By Grace Chow
Trees are the slowest fuck.
Curling in at glacial pace,
Mossed sentry-lovers marrying the soil by staying.
They love the Earth (They love the Earth).
If the Anthropocene had a wedding, We
would not be guests.
We’d be flies on the bain-marie:
Mistaking heat for welcome.
Unable to appreciate feast.
A pinprick of vomit in the tray.
Beyond this epoch – benign. In the end – go away.
“Gross!”
“Shoo!”
“What short lives they live.”
“They’ve ruined the tiramisu.”