FOSSIL FUEL

by Kathryn Pope

The ancients
are giant birds, reptiles living underwater,
razor-toothed fish, ants and dragonflies by the millions.
They are mushrooms with gigantic bodies
that once grew tall as buildings,
right where you’re standing.

Right where you’re standing,
was once the ocean floor of the ancients
when coral reefs began to form, like oceanic buildings.
One day all this will again be underwater,
and under the ocean will be our bodies
trapped for decades, maybe millions.

You pour the bodies of ancients, possibly millions

into the gas tank where you’re standing.

You press thin material to make bags from their bodies
to carry your milk, your lottery tickets and tampons, a daily tradition that feels almost ancient.
You walk as if you are underwater
from the store, to the car, to your buildings.
You use these remains in your buildings.
The uses number in the millions:
your pens and clips, your devices and fuel, your fish tank’s filter, underwater.

You eat your food while standing
until feeling something ancient,
and as you prepare for sleep, you feel heavy in your body.

In sleep, then death, your body
is carried from the buildings
toward the fate of all our ancients.

In time, in eons, maybe millions,
you find yourself standing
on a new ocean floor, underwater.
Your remains are poured into gas tanks, underwater
or pressed to make grocery bags, flat against other bodies.

As a bag, it carries eye makeup remover and hangs for days on a coat stand
before carrying oranges from building to building.
Then you slip into the wind with other bags, with millions
floating like small parachutes, letting go of all that’s ancient.

You slide into drains that lead underwater
far from buildings
toward an ocean filled with bodies
there are millions.

You form a heap of bags, the size of nations, standing
like old soup in the waves, surely something ancient.