Poems by Erin Liana Johnson

Loneliness

by Erin Liana Johnson

From Canary Summer 2022

Erin lives among the redwood groves on the edge of the Soquel Creek watershed, a short distance from the ocean waves in the territories of the Amah Mutsun and Awaswas. She hears owls at night and nuthatches in the morning.

I read in the news
that fireflies are diminishing.
On the banks of the Mekong River
you can hardly see their stars anymore,
dancing through the breathing night.
There are now so many artificial lights
that they can no long find each other
and dart about
signaling frantically,
tiny, hopeful ships passing
lost in the glare.

I don’t know how anyone finds
anyone, these days.