Espíritu Santo by Olivia Wolfe


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Espíritu Santo

“I’m worried about the polar bears,” you tug at my sleeve. 

“I’m worried about the ice capsules,” you scratch at your elbows.

“I don’t even know how to swim,” 

and you aren’t making a joke.

“I’m worried Mount Rainier will be flooded and
I’m worried about the irony of a land mass that sounds like rain
being washed away.”

“I’m worried about where we’re going to bury the honeybees,
if there will be flowers left for graves.”

“I’m worried about us,”
you bite your knuckles

“I’m worried about you”

you throw back across the room

“I’m worried about you”

you kneel, you beg, holy, hellish,
hollow.

“I’m worried about the cold fronts and the heat waves,

about La Niña, quédate, about the erosion of the sand dunes. Say

something.”

I’m worried that it was a high of 65 today,

and that no one seems to know what to do

when December is able to keep itself warm.




Olivia Wolfe

Olivia has western Pennsylvania roots, a weird overbite, and a Gemini habit. She has some other scattered publishing, including little words in Literary Sexts and Black & Grey Magazine.