In late capitalism, we harvest our grief,

boil it down to the salt, which we keep

in glass jars and sprinkle on our meat.

Our grief melts the ice on our roads and dissolves

in hot baths. We make it do work for us.

We harness our bodies for energy and our grief lights

up houses. Sometimes the lights flicker

on and off, but it happens so quickly

we think we imagined it. We don’t own candles

anymore. In late capitalism, we are never afraid

of the lights going out. We all brim

with the energy of our grief: of memory,

of burials, dry riverbeds, things of the past.

We are dangerous, shocking each other

with our touch. The body’s charge like bug

zappers from the summer dusks of childhood,

bug zappers shaped like floor fans or tennis

rackets that promise a half-acre killing radius,

promise to be easy-to-use, easy-to-clean,

and pesticide-free so we do not smell death.

When did we become such easy killers?

The UV lights glowed red like a rising sun.

Back then we watched mosquitos fly to the light,

listened to the terrible sound their bodies made

electrocuted. Though if I am honest,

I remember that the sound was good–

satisfying. If I am honest, we caught large

insects and fed them to the killing

grids to hear the zap, see the electricity.

Mosquito hawks were easiest

because of their long legs. We killed them

not because we wanted them dead. We killed

them because it was exciting. No grief.

Now enough to power our cities.

We believe in utility, a time and place

for each thing. We have forgotten the taste

of honey and imagine flowers no longer

necessary–a thing of green beauty

bursting in our vases but for what?

In late capitalism, the bees almost disappeared

before we remembered their barbed stinger,

the work of being stung.