The Last One On Earth

Carve into the birch trees, pollen breeze my air to breathe. One more cough and one more sneeze until it’s over. Tissue paper mottled with blood and yellow-green mucus, tearing and dissolving from tears. There is always salt in my mouth these days. Veiny leaves in the fervent winds remind me that I am an animal, and my skin gets filthier with each mawkish phrase that erupts from a faraway throat, but it feels like mine. Beautiful and pathetic soliloquy fills up the air. I am the only one. I am the only one. With the grasses' pedagogy and the flowers' instruction, I stand up and walk to the water. Its chill cries out for help, my pollutant and contaminant is all but too much to be cleaned by a simple stream. “I am sorry,” I say. “I am sorry Mother.” I should have been listening this entire time.