The Gift Shop at the End of the World

by Grace Wagner





Buy a bucket of fresh water to remember

the aquifer—last one in the world. Buy a pangolin

and keep it

               balanced on your shoulder; it’s the last

                                                                           of its kind. Buy

 

the last living half of the Great Barrier Reef,

put it in a bottle, and cork it tight—this is your last

chance to see it.

               Last chance, folks, get the ice cores while you can

as the boreal forests

                              burn.

Buy the last hamburger in the world and serve it

with a monoculture and ketchup. Buy all

the phytoplankton

you can use, store their oxygen

in glass tubes for breathing later. This is it, folks, the end

of the world, and we’re your last stop

                              for memories.

Remember the bees? Buy a box of bees,

                                                            honey

will be important after the collapse

of the market economy, and these are the last bees

around. The era of cheap food ends today,

               buy all that you’ll need

for the rest of your life, however long

                                                            that proves to be.

Buy species by the dozen, by the hundred,

they’ll all be gone—

the background rate is nearly 200 species a day

after all.

               Buy the last memories of your childhood

outside. Buy the feeling

of jumping in puddles and eating blackberries

                                                                           off the vine.

Buy fingers stained purple. Buy the feeling

of having more than you can

                                             consume.



               Buy the feeling of consumption,

                                                            the comfort of it,

the old routine of it. Buy the feeling of a storm

that only soaks you through, leaves you shivering

                              and alive.

               Buy old postcards of tigers, deer, and elephants—

                              their words

                                             are relics now.

Buy the scent of rain in the desert—

               will your children remember rain?

I will give you the stars for free.

We all need to look up

to the heavens with hope. Buy hope.



Hope is an ocean. Buy the last square foot of it

                                             not spangled with trash.

Buy capitalism—limited time offer!

       (What happens to the store when no one has anything left

               to buy or sell?) Buy selling out.

                                        Buy the present at the cost of the future.

Buy something to remember

Earth by. Buy something that says you were here.



Here we are at the end of the world. Once you exit

through the gift shop there’s no coming back.



               The snow leopard waits at the door, wanting

to be let out. The black rhinoceros paces a path

                              through the grass. Orcas carry their dead

               across oceans, but what does that mean to us?

There is no way to say goodbye.



               So with whatever you’ve got left, buy a little

                                                                                   silence—





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