Poetry
by Lisa Süß
On an island
far away
cliffs fall
into the sea
with the kind of
beauty that’s hard to
cope with when you’re an
atheist.
The only development are condos
etched into the walls
by rabbits.
Every summer puffins move in
after a winter at sea.
Do the birds force out the rabbits with their red beaks?
Or are the rabbits renting out their units?
Charging extra for burrows with a view
of confetti bombs
exploding
from the rock –
thousands of gannets, white birds with
black wingtips like soft ice cream
dipped into chocolate.
While I contemplate whether the rabbits are slumlords
or victims of seasonal gentrification,
I open a muesli bar:
dark chocolate,
macadamia,
cranberry.
I marvel at the beauty and decadence involved in
farming,
harvesting,
assembling
those ingredients
just so a girl can pick up a package of four
snack-sized bars for 2 pounds 40 at the supermarket and eat one
on the edge
of a windswept cliff.
I carefully put the plastic wrapper
into my pocket.
100 miles off this coast an
oil rig extracts
black gold from the
ocean floor.
I walk along the cliff,
the ground like a trampoline.
A man walks by with a Tesco bag,
nods, “You all right?”
without expecting an answer.
If I had said no,
would he have opened his Tesco bag and
fed me Walkers crisps like a
modern-day elf
appearing to lost wanderers?
I tally the number of puffins I spotted today.
9.
A coping mechanism of our time
deprived of
gods
and
elves.
Counting.
Quantifying.
Organising the world into
snack
sized
plastic
packages.
Appeared in Issue Fall '19
Nationality: German
First Language(s): German
Second Language(s):
English,
Dutch
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Listen to Lisa Süß reading "On an island far away".
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