Letter to the Human Race

by Alexandria Wyckoff


Crushed soda cans never decompose,
the metal glints in amber light until it slices
into the throats and stomachs
of wildlife that mistake silver for food.

You cut corners, fragile
grass bends beneath oblivious
soles. The death of the blades
progresses with each step until
they can no longer use the sun to grow
and eventually give way to mud.

You drill deep down into the ground
hunting for black liquid gold. One misstep
and the oil skates across the salty blue water
drifting down to curious sea life that
becomes trapped in the slippery substance before
floating to the surface.

One accidental spark from your frivolous
party floats onto dry leaves, then swaying
grasses, finally to silent trees that never
scream, even as fire consumes their skeletons
until acres of ash and soot remain.

Mother Earth will swallow you,
we’re another species that needs to be purged
wiped away from the planet, just like
the prehistoric dinosaurs
that once trekked across fertile ground,

their only remains just dust and bones,
discarded beasts not destined
to live in this world, layers of dirt,
stone, and grass digest a forgotten species
we may become ourselves.


* * * * *

Alexandria Wyckoff has a BA in Creative Writing from SUNY Oswego. She has been previously published in Gandy Dancer, Planisphere Q, The Ana, The Pensieve, and Quillkeepers Press. Find more of her work at: https://lwyckoff2002.wixsite.com/alexandria-wyckoff