Prayer for a Refuge
by Bobbi Dykema Katsanis
My godson was not quite eighteen months old
the day they voted
that the last best piece of wilderness be defiled.
Tell him I'm sorry
that we could not save it for him.
We did everything we could.
Tell him of reindeer,
their soft fur the shade of fog and mist,
their sturdy hooves,
their antlers' shape, as graceful as a dance.
Tell him of a people
who for fifteen thousand years
have plied their trade
among the snow and ice and howling winds.
Tell him of peregrine and polar bear,
their claws and talons made
of the same substance as his nails,
designed to rip away the life
that feeds their own—and this is not a sin,
but how the planet circles round.
Then speak to him of sins:
the sin of greed, of pride, of lust,
the sins that soon
will rip apart this strange and pristine land,
open its guts
to suck the tarry blood that lies within.
My godson will not see this lovely place
as it is now—
only in dreams
will reindeer gather there to calve,
will Gwi'chin hunt, and polar bear, and falcon.
Tell him I'm sorry.
We did everything we could
to save it; it was not enough
volume 11(6)
This poem is copyright © 2007,
Bobbi Dykema Katsanis, all rights reserved.
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