menial / our land is dead

my parents granted me the city
our land is dead
my siblings expected to keep trying
one to be mobile
one to send money
I live in a bunkhouse

17 men share this space
buildings without sunlight
sleep without privacy
work without prospect
whose water am I carrying?

gallons evaporated
my mind slowly dies
sun after moon
the rust of bed springs falls down on me

I remember spring
rice seedlings
cold mud on my feed

one to send money
desperate to remain sane

I am our land


This poem explores human mobility and livelihood challenges when, due to climate change, small-scale farming can’t sustain a family anymore and their food production becomes too little to sustain.