I dipped my hair into the sea.
When I pulled it out
It had grown by many yards and was curly.

Hanging on to every wave
Were crabs, starfish, brown kelp, yellow kelp,
Jellies with stingers and without,
And one open-eyed, open-mouthed scaly fish.

The water from my hair dripped on the ground, which cried,
The salty smell wrapped around me and fell to the grass, which sniffed and sneezed.
No mistaking, there was water rising.
I felt a sting of mild acid on my ankles.
I heard a nearby tree say: Leave me alone, this is the wrong water.

It is not my fault, I said.
It is not my blindness, not my cravings, not my thoughtlessness.
I am not to blame.
I am sure I heard one jelly laugh.
Those jellies do not laugh kindly.

I was now afraid,
And the fear wove itself into the plaits of my hair,
Still wet and dripping, making puddles, making lakes.

You are late, said a crab, you are very late,
The krill are gone, the whales dying of hunger.

Later, my hair fell off,
In my arms, holes appeared.
You are late, a starfish said, you are very late.

1 December 2009, before the world’s Copenhagen conference on global climate change

Nancy’s hometown is New York City, although she grew up on four and a half acres of wooded land in Connecticut. She has also lived in Hawaii and inland Southern California. She has had two careers, teaching Asian studies in the New York School system, and as producer/announcer for radio and TV in news, public affairs, and also classical music. Until the pandemic, Nancy was teaching hula and flamenco, and over the years she has done a wide variety of volunteer work.

Photo by Francesco Ungaro from Pexels