A new poem by Auckland poet Eamonn Tee.

High Tide at Local Maxima

        It is only going to get worse. The streams will be narrow and fickle. The week will bend and buckle like a pot-bellied waist. You will make it to the weekend with one day for the errands, like stacked dishes, and one day for rest— after you’ve filled the car, and finished your morning shift.

        You will have less time to make it to the streets, to the shouting and warmth, and ideas like sweet fruit. You will have less energy, and more guilt. In the evening, the mass of the day will sit on your chest. You sleep later than you should. Do not think of alternatives.

        This rushed summer will be the last real one you remember. New insects will hum in humid evening, migrations, or mutations. The hole in the ozone will come back. The drunkard sun will stay sickly, and far longer than he is welcome. We are not going to make things better. Do not flinch. We are not going to find alternatives. Do not flinch. There will be no better inventions. We peaked at the iPhone 7. Do not flinch. Silicon Valley will winnow away our roots. Do not flinch. The revolution will not be televised. Do not flinch. No alternatives will appear.

        Do not flinch. Keep your hand next to the element. It’s still warm.

        Do not flinch. This is living. Walk around the anvil in your bedroom. It is not going anywhere.

        Can you hear your heart?

The Friday Poem is edited by Chris Tse. Submissions are currently closed.