Brendan Walsh

scenes from the climate apocalypse, florida

the pelican’s gray bones sink in the sand,
its beak a silenced shard, its wings are dust,
our tortured sea riles, rises, and expands.

months ago, the milky tourists lay and tanned,
their umbrellas carried away by nascent gusts.
before this pelican’s gray bones sunk in the sand,

winds picked up, the ocean belched commands.
the rains repeat, our dead cars cake with rust,
the tortured sea riles, rises, and expands.

we build fires and break coconuts with our hands,
foraging isn’t a choice, it’s a must:
no meat on a pelican’s bones sunk in the sand.

the storms lined up then hit the coast in bands,
the governor blamed antifa, then cussed.
our tortured sea riles, rises, and expands.

we take things day-by-day, abandon plans,
we’re sunk costs (haha), a line item to adjust,
this fragile coast, they say, too weak to withstand.
still, our tortured sea riles, rises, and expands.

Brendan Walsh has lived and taught in South Korea, Laos, and South Florida. His work appears in Rattle, Glass Poetry, Indianapolis Review, American Literary Review, and other journals. He is the winner of America Magazine's 2020 Foley Poetry Prize, and the author of five collections, including Buddha vs. Bonobo (Sutra Press) and fort lauderdale (Grey Book Press). His chapbook concussion fragment, winner of the 2021 Elsewhere Chapbook Prize, is forthcoming from Elsewhere Press. He’s online at www.brendanwalshpoetry.com