Three poems
/
By Eli Rodriguez Fielder
Anachronism
the last map drawn by hand
was sent to me by the last artist to use paper
and I found the last pencil
to make the last annotation
and mailed it to the last activist
to xerox pamphlets to hand out
at the last protest organized by
the last collective to brew bad coffee
at the last meeting where
the person with the last moral
cried their final outrage
about the death of the last child
of a nation
the last child
to ever say the word
future
Last Responders
they place moss on the other side of trees
guide disoriented birds to weather-appropriate environments
counsel snails whose spirals have gone clockwise
make new horizons from the photographs of the old ones
wade through the rivers to chase salmon upstream
dive into the sea to lead lobster lines to shore
they wear diver suits with malfunctioning equipment
bodies unorienting
they flex lung muscles that searched for pearls
muscles that could read stars and wave swells
cloud-readers
time-smellers
they moan at whales
dance for the bees
run alongside rats
whisper in the fox
ear distance to prey
talk seeds into germination
from the last of Beal’s jars
pulled up from Michigan sand
go no go go no go
sing the song of seed whisperers
this is our work now:
grip the ping-pong paddle
to whack radiation back into space
run back the reversal of the earth’s magnetic poles
direct the apocalypse from the producer’s chair
swallow guilt from the horn of a megaphone
Without Virgil
it’s just a forest
a trail overcrowded with white dogs
ears tipped red
they do not guide but stare
slake the empty bottle to remember the taste of water
a wake-up cough
the sliding of saliva down a dry throat
jolt the mind from its drift
just a thicket without a machete
psalms without palms to hold them
a bible without a savior
a sin without pleasure
a wetless kiss
a heartless string yanking inside me
a toneless chord on a makeshift instrument
a counterfeit Parch unplayed
a sale unsigned
a paint chip analyzed in a lab
a number returned at a loss
the wind doesn’t fall except down my mouth
a pipe that’s not a throat
just smoke and
a mirror without reflection
a vampire sucking its own arm
until the body runs dry
skin becomes the crust of the earth
a plate without food
dinner without a party
an angel exterminating
what’s left that’s civil
Eli Rodriguez Fielder is a writer and artist from Queens, New York, based in Iowa City, IA. She is the author of The Revolution Will Be Improvised (University of Michigan Press, 2024) and her current manuscript contemplates interiority as it intersects in anatomy and art. Her non-fiction writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Common, Vernacular, Flere, and Brink.