Polar bears


Part 30 of the 64-part series called "moon photos"

I worry about them sometimes, in the cold
with their shrinking homes, the ice floes
wittling themselves down to nothing at all.
I worry that maybe they’ll get cold, even
though I know they won’t, with their white
fur and thick layer of subcutaneous fat.
(I only wanted to say subcutaneous there,
the sound of it rolling off my tongue like
how I imagine seal meat rolls onto a bear’s.)
Sometimes, I tell myself that they’ll be
fine, but I know they won’t, like the most
of us in whatever Brave New World we find.
I don’t know what else to say; there’s no
where to go from here but somewhere hotter,
somewhere less comfortable, for everyone.
There is no happy ending to any of this.
There could be, if a couple impossible things
happen all at once. But there aren’t miracles.