A nursery tale that reads as both a jest and a caution opens Marcus Wicker’s new poem “Late Summer in the Anthropocene”. The speaker and their partner choose a hibiscus plant, which behaves like a child who knows precisely what it desires — ceramic turquoise vistas, Whole Foods fertilizer, a garden hose nozzle that offers a careful stream of care. The plant is excessive, yet it is sincere. It unfolds, then shuts tightly, showing off its coral heart with a bold shamelessness the speaker confesses they lack.
Dear Mothership, published by Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins, is the source of the poem. It is a brief, image-driven meditation on climate grief that holds onto its warmth even at its most despairing.
The Nursery Story
A date night opens at a roadside nursery, built from pure goodwill and chain link that reaches from floor to ceiling, a detail that shapes the entire piece. When the sky is clear and the air quality index burns pale tangerine, golden squares of Kraft Cheese light melt over honey bees, snake plants and hostas. The plain ferns hold their own. The poem calls the scene a gooey, tropical gladness.
From the parking lot, Hibiscus Child sings to the couple. The song is this: “Wouldn’t I look peachy on your withered deck? Don’t I deserve ceramic turquoise views & Whole Foods fertilizer? A daily minute of attention with a 9-Pattern Garden Hose Nozzle?”. The speaker addresses the hibiscus directly, calling it “Middle kid in a potted triptych,” while admitting that the plant’s sizable demands come with a touch of excess.
Grief, Heat and Halcyon Season
The poem turns from the nursery’s cheerful chaos to the reality outside. “Love, it’s late. Summertime & the living is halogen,” the speaker writes. The couple is perishing gracefully as two sentry gardenia bushes flanking a flugelhorn tree fashioned from rose-gold blooms. They are impervious to inclement grief, rising seas, and the separatist hurricanes of history. They are drought-resistant and gleaming.
A couple waters in record heat while the speaker, dressed in a cloud-colored robe, calls the plants by wrong names, hoping to see the other glow. “Good morning, Fernie Sanders. Little Pothos Bill. Rise & shine, Morgan Treeman. Little Cactus Everdeen.” Each mistaken name treats a flower as though it were a person, a small life with its own name and its own story.
Climate Grief and the Roots Beneath
The closing part of the poem is where it stakes its claim. Once the pretense wears off, once the curtain between lawn and blaze grows thin, you train your gaze on the roots instead. Amid this former conflagration, this golden season, the pair stand as evidence.
The poem’s imagery is striking throughout. Golden cheese-bee light. A rose-gold flugelhorn tree. A cloud-colored robe. The speaker’s love for the other is expressed through these images — the warmth of the light, the resilience of the plants, the early morning watering. The poem never loses its warmth, even when it is most despairing.
About Marcus Wicker
Three poetry volumes make up Wicker’s work: Dear Mothership, Silencer, and Maybe the Saddest Thing, with the last chosen by D.A. Powell for the National Poetry Series. His awards include a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship, the Poetry Society of America’s Lyric Poetry Award, a Pushcart Prize, and a Ruth Lilly Fellowship, alongside fellowships from the Harvard Radcliffe Institute, The Fine Arts Work Center, and Cave Canem. His poems have found their way into The Nation, The New Republic, The Atlantic, Oxford American, and Poetry Magazine.
An associate professor and holder of the Orgill Chair of English teaches in the MFA program at the University of Memphis. He holds that position there.
The Poem’s Running Order
| Section | Detail |
|---|---|
| Nursery Scene | Date night at a roadside nursery |
| Hibiscus Child’s Song | “Wouldn’t I look peachy on your withered deck?” |
| Early Morning Watering | Cloud-colored robe, misnamed flowers |
| Final Image | Sentry gardenia bushes flanking a rose-gold flugelhorn tree |
The poem’s structure is simple: a nursery story, a song, a morning routine, a final image. Each section builds on the last, tightening the focus from the nursery’s cheerful chaos to the couple’s quiet resilience.
The poem’s handling of climate grief is what sets it apart. Wicker avoids letting the subject weigh down the verse, instead keeping things light even as the topic itself is heavy. The hibiscus reads as funny, the names come across as tender, and the closing image lands as beautiful. Together, these elements show grace at work in a world that is burning.
The poem is available from Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins.
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