“Late Summer in the Anthropocene,” a Poem by Marcus Wicker

From the Collection Dear Mothership

& our hibiscus is on that bullshit again.
You know the story. She picked us. Date night

at the roadside nursery. The one made entirely
of good vibes & floor-to-ceiling chain link,

so that sometimes, with any luck & clear
skies—when the air quality index glows a pale tangerine—

little golden squares of Kraft Cheese light melt honey
bees, snake plants & hostas; the ordinary ferns

hanging tough; melt me & my love in a gooey, tropical
gladness. Hibiscus Child sang to us from the parking lot:

Wouldn’t I look peachy on your withered deck?
Don’t I deserve ceramic turquoise views

& Whole Foods fertilizer? A daily minute of
attention with a 9-Pattern Garden Hose Nozzle? Middle kid

in a potted triptych, Hibiscus Child can be a bit much.
But she’s honest. Opens up, then closes, pointedly.

Flaunts her heart’s coral needs with a gaudy
audacity I am famously bad at. Like, Love me, motherfucker

lest we both perish of heatstroke! Love, it’s
late. Summertime & the living is halogen.

But you & me, we are perishing gracefully
as two sentry gardenia bushes flanking a flugelhorn tree

fashioned from rose-gold blooms. Impervious to inclement
grief, rising seas, & the separatist hurricanes of history.

Drought-resistant & gleaming, the two of us
up early, watering in record heat. Me in my cloud-

colored robe misnaming the flowers,
hoping to see you beam. Good morning, Fernie Sanders.

Little Pothos Bill. Rise & shine, Morgan Treeman. Little
Cactus Everdeen. Sometimes peril imperils itself. I can see that now.

When the affected acclimate. When the veil between
backyard garden & the inferno is sheer,

you learn to fix your focus on the roots. Love,
in this erstwhile fire, this halcyon season, we are proof.

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