A Poem To The Future
The The Future:
Who are you?
When are you?
Have you even been born?
If so,
I suppose that’s a good sign.
Not for me or my loved ones.
We’re probably dead.
No wonder the old fear the young,
a more than
infuriating reminder
of their (or our)
imminent death.
If you happen to be fortunate enough
to be reading this poem on earth, bravo!
Humanity has managed to get
our shit together.
I have no doubt you’ve played your part,
or given it your best shot.
I wish you could tell me if you succeeded
where we did not. Did you manage to
topple patriarchy, white supremacy? Dare
I dream for You, a post-capitalism society?
If this struggle makes it to the history books,
there’s something you must understand:
We really didn’t think we’d make it.
We really didn’t think we’d be able to reverse
Climate Catastrophe.
We really did not.
Perhaps, I’m being too optimistic
you could be living the plot of Interstellar
as we speak — Although I’m gonna say
definitively,
there is no surviving
a black hole.
Still,
I want to reach out, and just brush your fingertips
across the years, decades.
Allen Ginsberg referred to Walt Whitman as his mentor
a hundred years later. Imagine that?
Here’s to hoping this message in a bottle
makes it
to You.
Here’s to hoping You
pay it forward; despite
what we might’ve
— or how little we’ve left for
You.
Warmest Regards — No, wait.
Sincerely Yours,
Francesca (She/They)
