THE PINE TREE AND THE MARCHING Poem by Peter Verhelst

Soon we'll have used everything up. The grasses are yellow.
We slit our wrists on it, the children their throats. Fever
makes us sing out in tongues. Cactus flowers, scorpions.

We stand in a circle, arms around the shoulders,
jumping up and down with united strength, our ankles sunk in boulders.
We have wrapped our last remaining dogs in hairs.
One spark will suffice to let them set the entire valley ablaze,
such is the power of our hope.

Nothing works.

We will have to chase the rain.

One by one the mammoths will emerge through the smoke.

On the back of the mammoths our women sit swaying their hips
They point up ahead.
Spouting fountains. Liquid mirrors in the desert.