White Mulch

My face pressed to the window screen– black pick-up trucks
pass. A little bit of breeze is recommended to ground yourself.

Such violence in a chicken nugget. If I think about vegetable
intelligence, I will allow myself only to eat white mulch. When

becoming grass, nothing happens to the soul. Clumps of earth
inside my fingernails when I scratch at the dirt, and still I weed

myself to the idea that beauty is ubiquitous in nature. At the sky
I choke on the concept of air. That my lungs work all living

hours, ununionized, is betrayal. My desk chains me
to the dark, and still I have the heart to look out a window?

(originally published in TRIBES, Fall 2021)

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