Upon me the sun still
glares yellow, though 8
billion brown and drown; who’s
left will scramble south to north, clawing
this fray of earthly
hernia mesh that holds
back my inguinal sobs.
Though I’d hate
to watch my kids die
before me, I can take
the heat as you—like Orpheus
head, still singing—float
away. Take it from the oldest
mom you’ve got—I’ll be here after
you walk home from school, even
if you won’t.