Cyanobacteria in primeval waves
found the young planet so immensely to their liking
that they multiplied and multiplied—
those carbon-gluttons at an endless feast—
spread, turned oceans blue,
and forced the world
to breathe
From which it all followed: legs grew,
and nerves and spines, fins, wings, antennae, tails;
monocots pushed up, leaves uncurled;
meadows flamed with color, brought forth
the humming seethe
of bees; and, not incidentally,
some enterprising double-jointed ape
stretched out a fingertip and touched a thumb,
and found the world was less
obscure
—from which the rest of it proceeded:
wars and Romans, contrapposto, dancing,
letters, A-tests, pyramids and satellites,
gunpowder, rock and roll, vaccines, banner ads,
whisky, card games, fantasy leagues, traffic stops, Congress: well,
here we are.
Did, as cyan crept across the swells,
as the holocaust of oxygen filled the air,
some skeptical bacterium
demur?
Did it assert, The oceans aren’t changing; or,
if they are changing, you can’t prove
that we’re the ones changing them;
and anyway, why stop progress, when
cyanobacteriakind has come
so far?
A. Bagby, a Chicago-based writer, musician, performer, and illustrator, recently participated in the Arctic Circle Arts & Sciences Expedition, an arts residency aboard a tall-mast ship exploring the glaciers and fjords of Svalbard. Her writing has appeared onstage with Strange Tree Group and Sansculottes; in anthologies from Wipf & Stock, Press 53, and Chicago Review Press; and in numerous magazines. She also draws oddball creatures for The Forgiveness Monster, fronts Liz + the Baguettes, and plays bass for The Unswept.