The Gulf

Out where the oil is on fire

the dead fish
of the Macondo well
lift and fall on the swells,
burn like dollar bills
in our pockets
that long to be spent.

We count them,
shuffle them,
keep a ledger of them,
toss them into a collection plate

like the single lamb on Abel’s altar.

Think of how
that day ended,
of Cain cursed;
think of his greased face
and a brand new word, murderer,
aloft in the smoke behind him
as he ran off with nothing in his pocket,
then think of how we have remained so willing
to spend any blood but our own
for the comfort
we think we are owed.

Maybe
Cain knew this was coming
and tried to stop it — 
Cain, a lucky man
who had somewhere to run.

Tags: poetry, poems, meditations, current-events