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Of course they lied that there was a
cishet god of fear in wild places, as if
fucking,drinking, hunting, feral dancing
isn’t universal as forest. Nature fluxes,

gobbling bloody maenad genitals,
bulldozer operators, overgrown boys
demanding Mars to rule. Desert saguaros
sing dirges to long life chopped short for

Potemkin border walls. The anima mundi
gathers discarded needles, jams them into
billionaire homunculi: brain, kidney,
tender flesh. Green one grows kudzu

fortifications; deep face drinks glacier melt,
shark tears, fuels tsunamis. The reckoning arrives,
forces marshaled for climate Ragnarok.
The fear settles on those who know the stats,

while everyone else sleeps, like there’s
never a margin call. Volcano explodes,
angry that the Kingdom of Hawai'i
remains occupied, furious at tourists choking

Indigenous lungs with gas fumes, naval fuel
in the drinking water, haoles claiming birthright
on stolen sand. The New Madrid hums
with fracking, ready to explode. Panic will come

for every fuckwitted one of us, remind us
that we are small, lack claws, world never
our fiefdom, and soon in fear of forest,
field, and fire, they will remind us why rabbits run.



Elizabeth R. McClellan is a white disabled gender/queer neurospicy demisexual lesbian poet writing on unceded Quapaw and Chickasha Yaki land. In kan other life, ka is a domestic and sexual violence lawyer. Ka can be found most places online as popelizbet and on Patreon as ermcclellan.
Current Issue
2 Sep 2024

The corpsemongers down on Echo are selling human teeth again, little pearls of calcium passed hand to palm like benediction, and that means the pilot has to go down and check for eyeteeth.
It was all the statues, all those human, inhuman faces, looking at us
but synthBlooms cost / too.pretty.a.penny...
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