At the bottom of the Mariana Trench,
a bag drifts,
pale and aimless,
its edges curling like tired fingers.
It wasn’t supposed to reach this far—
a scrap of plastic, translucent, torn,
settling softly into the black,
deeper than sunlight dares to dream.
It moves like a ghost
over a silent yard,
where fishes with no names glow faintly,
their lanterns dim against the dark.
The bag whispers, crinkling,
a quiet reminder;
we’ve been here too.
It folds itself into the silt,
a mockery of a jellyfish,
its handles waving
like arms in surrender.
Out of place,
and yet, nothing here can protest.
The pressure is merciless,
enough to crush steel into submission,
enough to shatter bone—
but not this.
This thing that we made endures,
impervious to the weight of the world.
It is a monument,
a marker of hands too careless,
a relic of air thin and fleeting.
Does the anglerfish notice?
Does the octopus care?
They swim on, silent,
while the bag floats,
more permanent than coral, than coal
more patient than rock.
It will outlast them all—
the glowing creatures,
the crumbling trenches,
the stars that shone before us.
It waits, folded neatly into the earth,
refusing to decay,
holding the imprint of a world
that forgot to look back.
The bottom of the trench isn’t empty.
It cradles us,
the reckless child of humanity,
our indifference pressed into its depths,
waiting to rise.