In One Hundred Thousand Years


In three thousand years, archeologists will dig up my bones
and I will be a beautiful specimen of homo sapiens.
They will dust off my bones, yellow and piled up and weary,
and give me a name that is not my name
and they will say, "This is a very primitive hominid.
She has never been to space, an d
Her species hadn't yet developed the structures needed for telepathy.
But her brain was big and her spine was straight,
Good job, Lucy, good job."
They will pull me out of some desert that was once fertile and green
and accuse my people of destroying ourselves
and being underdeveloped, of being small, and cruel.
And they will be right.
They are scientists, are they not?
But they do not know that one day they will die in a place
that is lush and sweet-smelling,
a place where the soft brown earth
would have squished beneath their to es if
they had been so brave as to take off their shoes and walk upon it.
They cannot see that they to o will be dragged out of dry earth
cracked and gasping for air.
They do not see what I love and who I love
They will never know the color of my eyes
Their radiation will not tell them what I willingly gave,
Their knives cannot reveal what I have lost.
I wonder if Lucy was left handed.
I wonder if she ever felt fear.
To the men and women and those who will dig me up in a million years,
please be careful with my bones.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem