After Eli Clare
The night we pushed the old
blue Mazda through cold
flood waters and bruises
bloomed like bayou algae
on my shoulder, neck, arms
where the weight of the dead car fell
after we trudged through
the water, snakes, and ants
to the hotel where I cried
terrified not for us but the
dogs we left behind—
is a poem.
The detritus on the side of the road—
Styrofoam, glass bottle neck,
couch frame a momma cat had
kittens on, pieces of plastic
too small to count, crack pipe
busted, plastic bag clinging
to a barbwire fence, newspaper
half-buried in the mud, in the red-dust
wind by a gas station out West, litter
like a sea on the side of IH-45—
is a poem.
Microplastic invisible to the human eye
slipping into the water system
through the very clothing we wear
(can’t afford 100 percent cotton
and it has a plastic tag)
drawn into the ocean minutiae
from careless children
dropping Sprite bottles
(they were once glass)
into Galveston Bay
disappearing into waves,
a plastic bead spill
(the ship lost its way)
an airplane falling
from the sky
a satellite falling
out of orbit
a contract
falling through
everything degrading
just in increments
so small
you can’t see them
is a poem.
The old woman on her porch
who lived 70 years and
the river never came up
to her feet before,
the police never came
to her door before
refusing to leave this place
she bought with her
hard-earned cash from
working so many years
at the wag-a-bag on the corner,
who can feel every inch
of it slipping away
beneath her tired feet
silt-slick boards
under her toes,
no, sir, if you want
me to go, you’re gonna have
to carry me out—
is a poem.
The organizers who switch
from LGBTQ to reproductive rights
to Black lives matter without blinking,
a generation who taught
us not just to be loud
but to get shit done,
the ones whose ghosts
we carry on our backs
like fresh water—clean water—
shouldn’t we all be water
protectors? shouldn’t there be
water like justice?
queers who never wanted
justice, an eye for an eye,
justice is blind
who only wanted this win,
then this win, then this win
is a poem.
Bar soap in the shower
on a silicone mat
(is silicone better than plastic?
We may never know)
in my gym bag
(in the plastic case)
next to the kitchen sink
(with the wood-bristle brush)
in a million hotel bathrooms
un-reusable, unsalvageable
(Covid cut down on commutes
but tripled single-use)
the one black curly hair
stuck in the white soap—
is a poem.
My spouse asleep next to me
under the revolving fan
the AC blowing sweet and cold
everything at peace and
safe—homage to plain-spoken,
never broken, we will survive
together love even if
tomorrow the sun is gone
even if they say
this poem is not enough
Absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking. Thank you