Our Epitaph

by Lena (Sunada-Matsumura) Newlin

Photo by USGS

Here lie our remains.

A shoe,
size two,
worn by a girl,
until her toes poked through;

A toothbrush,
colored red,
from a man,
whose teeth now sit
in a glass
by his bed;

A bottle made of
plastic,
that provided nutrition and comfort
for a toddler–
hungry and spastic;

A pacifier from a baby,
who would grow up to be
an environmentalist,
maybe;

A plastic lighter,
from a teenager,
who learned from his dad,
how to smoke
and be a fighter;
to debtors;

A plastic bag,
that encased
an American or a Chinese or an Australian 
flag;

Plastic pellets–nurdles, 
that look tasty to 
turtles;

A carcass 
of a seal,
who was just looking 
for a meal;

A turtle shell,
who got caught up in the swell;

The beak of an albatross, 
whose babies
won’t survive 
her loss;

For our life's evidence 
we
shall 
pay
penance:

Six hundred twenty thousand square miles. 
A refuse nexus,
double the size of Texas
They’re massive: the piles

Of our remains
In the ocean.
Here lies the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

---

Lena (Sunada-Matsumura) Newlin is a fourth-generation Wyomingite living in Laramie, Wyoming. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and a Masters in Public Health. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, Solstice Literary Magazine, High Desert Journal, and others. I was a finalist for a Fulbright creative writing research grant, and my work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and was a finalist for a Porch Prize.