This poem is taken from Stand 223, 17(3) September - November 2019.

Pascale Petit Poem
Forest Guard

I want the world’s presidents to live here
        one after the other,
                in my shack, with no gun –

just walls that let in moonlight and owlsong.

Little pay, but one twenty-four carat pugmark
is priceless.

I want the fool who calls the Amazon rainforest
a wasteland

and he who would turn my reserve
into a golf course

to lie on my bed, while sunlight
pierces slats of the walls
to cast stripes on his skin.

Let them be pretenders of power!
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