They called the dark lines each a summer
so I guess you were 12 or a teenager
when you died; young for my species
but frankly I don’t know how it is for yours.
Now your skeleton is a display
and we admire the specimen—how pretty—
of your desperate life. My niece turned
thirteen with you in her hands. Ironic.
You know there are billions of us,
maybe seven billion. Which means
every second of every day, we create
about ten thousand years of memories.
I guess there are more of you, but again
I’ve no concept of your minds, memories
being mostly a mental construct, I think.
What ate you? Or killed you senselessly,
is that a thing that happens to your kind,
and was it painful? Did you mind? Or
was it just—what you expected, one moment
more cruel than the rest, but you knew
all along: this is how it will end.
We don’t, really. We just live and feel
some terrible surprise at the end, I guess.
I don’t really know that either, yet,
but I suppose I can tell you afterwards.
I wonder if you ever saw the moon
luminescent on the open sea waters,
whitish light filtering down into waves.
Did you know to make black lines in summer
or was that just another thing you do?
June 2021
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