Dear E., I tried to attach myself to a fast cloud to avoid the black
or white, either/or newspaper noise that was piling as high as the peaks
surrounding Crested Butte. Instead of clouds, all I found was wildfire
haze, smoke, the remains of cremated forests. Foul air and lungfuls
of ash could not stop the ancient debates about who the new emperor
or empress should be. No one could remember the Jokerville mining
disaster. A tunnel caved in. 60 dead. Worse than funny: forgotten. No
joke. Empires, like mine shafts, always collapse. Rip out coal, silver,
gold. Replace rocks with bodies. But flesh and blood can’t support
sagging mountains or busted economies like critical minerals can.
My only escape came on orange and yellow butterfly wings dancing
through what was left of the aspens. They were monarchs who refused
to rule over anything. In November, I’ll write them in. Much love, Will.
Will Falk (he/him) is a poet, attorney, and community organizer. He writes poems while traveling across the US to offer free legal services to communities fighting against extractive projects like mines, pipelines, and clear-cuts. His poems have appeared through Chapter House Journal, ONE ART, Sheila-na-gig Online, and Wayfarer Magazine, among others. His first poetry collection is When I Set the Sweetgrass Down (Wayfarer Books, 2023).
Thank you very much, Wayfarer Magazine!