An alphabetic language is not mine. It was always mine
Before you spoke, before you wrote it. A language in which you ask me to speak about
Climate, one of my truer tongues. You did not invent it any more than you did
Dinosaurs. You might be thinking that I only react to outside
Events—asteroids, meteorites, humankind, your
Few fallen into prosperity. I act with the
Grace of my law. It is not
Human. I do not resist, nor do I conspire. Multiple
I, I am always the more that you cannot escape. This is
Joy and jeopardy for you, that the things you require, you
Kill. What is it like, you ask me, to be under the Anthropocene
Like you? You have read the Enuma Elish, how even the
Mighty ancient gods had unruly children. I do
Not call you my children. The relationship,
Our relationship, is more complex. Parenthood is a cliché
Proffered to simplify. It is a cliché to say you arrived late after many emergents, lateness a
Quality you took for first place, as if you were last, would last, outlast a
Ration of being. If you ask me, it is like the shiver riding at
Speed. I throw up cyclone and storm, hurricane,
Typhoon, languages for them, drought, fire, each in its place, not
Undoing cycles—they were always infused with chaos—but the
Vigour has changed, is ever-changing, I am changed.
Weather is my stirring cloak (your
X-rated news), my habitat, my atmosphere and
Yes. Yes, you are right to notice the difference, to consider
Zoology, to recall your zooid entanglements, your species of geology.