I can’t apologize enough for the plastic bottles and cans
I didn’t recycle, didn’t turn into something else,

the ozone I helped deplete with my deodorant, a secret
I sprayed every morning, with the air conditioner

I still run every summer, the water I contaminated
with household chemicals and expired medicine.

Forgive my thoughtless acts of self-annihilation.
No matter how much I reduce-reuse-recycle,

it will never be enough. Earth, you noble brute,
I hear you groaning under the strain. You want to

breathe freely as before exhaust from factories and cars
choked your sky, before the sea filled with territories

of debris wrapped in plastic, jetsam killing sea life,
marring coastline, before we set the sea on fire.

I’m trying to learn your wordless language. I hear you rebelling
against all our misdeeds with fires, floods, tornadoes—

all your cries for help we’ve turned a blind ear to.
Help us to listen when you speak, when you cry out.

Ellen June Wright was born in England and currently lives in New Jersey. She has consulted on guides for three PBS poetry series. Her work was selected as The Missouri Review’s Poem of the Week in June 2021. Ellen has received five 2021 Pushcart Prize nominations.