Waste by Lucy Whitehead

One day they rose
            up
                 out of the primordial ooze,
the new primordial ooze
            of the wasteland
which we had left 
            strewn over the earth,
from shiny tangled places
            of tin cans and value meal trays,
slick with oil, squelching
            and rustling 
                       over the carcasses
            of dead seagulls
                       and poisoned whales.
Their claws the razor edge
            of rusted coke cans
                       sliced and shredded,
their bottle eyes, glassy and dead.
            Their giant limbs lumbering
and clinking, crackling and tinkling
            in the half-lit chemical haze.
They cared not for human life
            except for the way it tasted 
            as it disappeared 
                       down their twisting
                       toxic throats
            warming their cold container
                       insides.
We cowered in dread
            at the ultimate clean up job.

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Lucy Whitehead has a BA (Hons) in Archaeology and Anthropology and an MA in History of Art and Archaeology (of Central and Southeast Asia). She writes haiku and poetry. Her haiku have been published widely in various international journals and anthologies, and her poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Burning House Press, and Mookychick. You can find her on Twitter @blueirispoetry.