Poem: ‘Poison Drills’ Rob Jagodzinski, December 2009

Poison Drills

Rob Jagodzinski

December 2009 

Take me to our stream, papa

It dances in our dreams, papa

So pure and sweet and cold it gives a chill   

That stream has turned to mud, child

It flows like clotted blood, child

They left it toxic with their poison drills 

But what about our spring, papa

Its crystal waters sing, papa

In summer heat we drink and get our fill 

You know that spring is dead, child

Its fountain turned to lead, child

They pumped it dry to slake their poison drills 

But what about our woods, papa

It will do us good, papa

To walk among the hemlocks on the hill 

They mowed those hemlocks down, child

Then dug pits in the ground, child

And filled them up with sewage from their drills 

The season’s almost gone, papa

Let’s go to fish our pond, papa

Where brook trout rise on autumn nights so still 

The pond’s an open sore, child

It festers shore to shore, child

Polluted by their leaking, poison drills 

What happened to our well, papa

Our water tastes like hell, papa

I drank one little drink that made me ill 

Our well’s no longer pure, child

They say there is no cure, child

They left it toxic with their poison drills 

This sickness is a grief, papa

I cannot find relief, papa

The water is so dirty it will kill 

I weep over my dead child

Stone cold in her bed child

Taken from me by the poison of their drills

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