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The American Dream

By Penny Novack

Thinking to myself, daydreaming as I watch
Golden bliss slip into my tea, the thought comes,
“How would I describe honey for those
Who will never see honey?”

Just that suddenly, visions of a world bereft
Of honey, of songbirds, of ancient groves
Take me and I see:

We have poisoned our children
Intent on neater lawns and fewer bugs.
We are excusing ourselves as if
We have no choices, as if
Ecocide is common sense.

While we kill our land’s soil,
Oceans die of our glut.
Our guts growl for meat —
Our guts growl and rivers die for miles
All that we may consume death —
Death to our waters, death to our land
Death to our air, our skies.

Such death spreads like a nacreous cloud
Across our illusions of business
As usual.

Well? Will there be honey?
Will there be flowers?
Will butterflies grow stingers to feed on
livelier fare?
And — will frogs and bats all die, all gone?

What are these visions I cannot stop?
How can you tell me the solution is
To be blind and deaf and numb?



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