By Taisha OstlerBox springs and lampshades float
through Marshall Islands, snatched by mounting tides.
Rising oceans slowly swallow
lives built upon remnants of tested ground.
I am far removed.
I wander a desert plain.
With precipitation measured in flakes,
There is no water rising here.
Here, in this valley of ancient salt and lake
Into too many dry lawns,
Too many parched throats.