We Forget So Much

My grandparents tell me about the scientists, late at night
When the heat sighs under the door
About how the world believed that thinking and caring
Could be given over to others
But that world drowned and we play on the floor
Of the ocean that was
All of us, while the adults polish the last bright dish
Filling with hope from somewhere
Else.

The scientists knew about water, about oceans, fish
But none of that belongs to us
It was paid for to be hidden, to be resold to us
By the hope whispered
Into the dish we keep clean...as if there were gods
Say my grandparents

My parents say that we need to be careful, to walk
The sands with them, slowly
That the water will come when the disk is perfectly cleaned
Like a sun rolling down to us
It will shine a path directly through our eyes and wrists.
Height won't let them forget, nor will they abandon us
To the myth of scientists.

For me, poetry isn't a full conversation. It's the spark that will land upon what tinder exists in the reader. So what this isn't is a full and careful philosophical proposition that a certain thing is good or bad and what we should therefor do. Maybe it's something that worries me.

Sharing today with The Sunday Muse and Poets United.

-- Chrissa