Cracked Earth

by Sarah Carleton

“Try to praise the mutilated world.” —Adam Zagajewski


Pretty soon you’ll

raze the grass and weeds,

although for now all you do

is pick sticky seeds off pant legs.

Still, you’re smitten with this flawed planet that

ensnares you with its ups and downs—



the heliconia raising delicate orange birds, the orchid roots

hanging, contorted as octopus legs,

each tangle adding to the chaos. We human



mammals, just as jumbled, pump air and thrive like vines

under the sun,

the blue swirl we’re perched on

indifferent to squabbles, toxic

leaders and malignant tumors.

Admit you’re enthralled by

this spinning ball

etched with fault lines. You read about the tumble-

down democracy, ancient trees burning in the



west, girls forced to bear babies—news that makes you tear

out your hair. But

right as your devotion wavers, a woodpecker

laughs, and you lose your heart once more to the

damaged world.