Aldo Delara

A plastic bag slimy with cilantro
is in the kitchen trash, itself a plastic bag
that would be trash if not for armature
of a turquoise can. Shame
for not scraping the black stink
with a silicone scraper into the compost.
Shame for illusion, that silicone’s better.
Shame even for the saved and washed—
for having so many saved and washed
waving to dry on chopsticks in a flower frog.

In the mirror, hair of volumizing polymer.
In the practice hour, naturals and accidentals
scaling their plastic steps, half and whole.
In the garden shed, a plastic bag like a grain sack
ripening full with 4-4-4. A hayrick label, gold autumnal.
In the living room chair, the man with the plastic stent.
In the dish, commemorative flatpicks
stamped with weddings and births.
Delrin, Tortex, we’re going for crisp.

It is a container with a snap-on lid.
It is obscure as a bathroom window.
It has moleculed in the rinse cycle.
A bathtub, a duck, a bouncing ball. It is all singing along.
A layer in the impact crater. Return me
to the Great Meteor, plastic my welcome mat,
plastic my digit. Walk with me,
arches of my arches.

It is microfiber calling the dust.
It is laminated to last, bookmark
lost behind the couch.

Do not tumble in a gust, do not swallow, do not crawl
inside and breathe. When freezing food,
don’t top up the plastic box.
Do not jumble, do not wistful, do not
maxopromorphize or minuscule, do not
overlap the stove or wash
the plastic bag by scrubbing with another plastic bag.
It is all freezer-burn and ziplock.
It did what it could, not enough
to shield the cake, now squashed.


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