The painted lady on the tiled floor
was stuck in half wet speckled paint, and dead
in two more minutes, but for now it writhes
and coats its sunset wings as its own clan
flies on, to north and warmth, which shift too soon
these dying days, as Fahrenheit stays up
and up and Mercury will go become
a god, and change this earth to match its burning
home. I watch wind and sun touch lips
to spray a halo soft across these hills,
these specks of gold and black will dance in light
and hide in newborn leaves from turbid night.
My brush is lifted, canvas browned like bread.
I think that Turner would have been aghast,
his paintings warned of solar wrath, but we
still ate the sky and tore the ozone shield,
and with our bellies full, laid back and watched
the fire in distant lands with hooded eyes.
Melodie Qian (they/them) is interested in exploring gender-nonconforming identity and ecology through their writing. In their spare time, they love to play looter-shooter games and watch birds.