dear jane

you were always a constant to me.

there was a book in the back of our classroom

tucked between crates of other, more important tomes

it had a picture of you on the cover and i read it almost every day

for a year, whenever i was feeling angry

at the world at my classmates at myself at everyone

for being unable to work things out.

dear jane, i've always been fascinated by your discoveries, by the humanlike nature

of the chimps you worked with, our ancestors

whose fixed gaze into the camera has haunted me since i first

learned that our planet was heating up,

that the oceans were filled with plastic, that the trees couldn't breathe

and that i was somehow responsible.

i nearly cried when i learned you'd passed - suddenly my very own

force of nature, calling out from the pages of that long-ago book,

was gone. jane, how am i supposed to fix things

now that you're not here to help me see the winding green path

through this jungle? it is dark here, and loud,

and no one is coming to save me. jane, jane,

whisper to me, impart to me your years of wisdom. i will watch

the documentaries of you tonight with subtitles on and strain

to hear your voice above the noise of the world. i will cover

my notebooks with your words and i will not lose faith in us,

jane, i promise. we will change things. we shall march 

into the midst of the swamp just when we are convinced all is lost,

yelling your name into the low-hanging sky and we will watch

as the rain begins to pour.

(and i will compose a letter to you then and it will be a letter of hope

and it will all begin with jane)