REGRET

The trees lining the salt mine

have grown into death thirsty

as pillar after pillar has been carried

to the surface as grains or crystals.

Their bark burned away,

all that remains are blackened shells

of leaves once grown

and rays of the sun.

I make my way

through the dead.

Here a farmer once lived,

herding his cattle across the road

to the troth and field.

There my great-grandmother worked

packing peas and corn into cans,

wearing a white apron and sweat.

This is what our world has become:

a road lined with bodies

that once could have been called people,

drivers making their way

on gas they can’t afford,

a memory of a life once lived

that wouldn’t recognize its own reflection.

Reader, what have we done?