by Adela Najarro
We can lose an election,
We can lose a lawsuit,
We can lose our visas. We can lose our plane seat.
We can lose our refugee status, a volcano, and a nation,
but we can’t lose morning.
We may get lost on this planet
twirling an elliptical orbit
around a sun that is one golden star.
We can lose what we know.
We know our fathers are flawed.
They stand next to many cars
in sensible shoes. They are anchors.
They are the sea, a turbulent sea upon which we rock.
We can lose ourselves.
We can lose our families.
We can lose a child.
He stands at an airport terminal
in blue. He is azure. Celestial. A blue boy.
A boy looking lost in ice blue air.
He lost a visa, refugee status, and his volcano
strung along the Pacific’s Ring of Fire.
When the water rises,
the water itself will get lost
in torrents that flood
past beaches onto highways.
As streets and parking lots
drown, we will lose cars, wallets,
three chestnut oaks rising.
All will be lost
as one iceberg melts
at the tip of the world.
Adela Najarro, whose extended family emigrated from Nicaragua, is the author of three poetry collections. Her writing has appeared in Nimrod, Crab Orchard Review, Puerto del Sol, Blue Mesa Review, and many others. She teaches creative writing, literature, and composition at Cabrillo College. Click here to visit her website.