she’s grown melancholy, realizing that
we’ve forgotten how to mend things.
disposable society,
throw away relationships.
it’s ripped? Garbage.
it bothers you? Get rid of it.
but we rip things for fashion
and buy faded jeans.
rescued things are elegant
sometimes the patches are beautiful.
besides, new things
have no stories.
unwrap plastic layers to find no smell,
no dust, no fingerprints.
in this disposable life,
we are constantly cycling through things.
are we becoming toxic waste?
all the things we rip through bioaccumulate
in our own systems.
we don’t clean up, we move on.
all our pollution, mounds of trash,
heaps of pain, they can only be ignored for so long
we’re wired for consumption
and envy, some say.
but we lose touch that this is only
a part of our whole selves.
she's angry that we’re stainless,
fireproof, water-resistant,
spotless, immaculately clean
and devoid of evidence of humanity.
so she's searching.
for handprints in concrete sidewalks,
bookplates and dedications in second-hand novels.
100 year old postcards with the messages still on them,
a hair in your salad, the gunk stuck in the drain, an eyelash in the sink.
a fingernail in the clay,
the air inside of balloons, used tissues, hickeys.
the fluted edge of a homemade pie with clear outlines
of an individual – fingerprints that are unique.
muddy footprints on the floor,
warm chairs in a newly vacated classroom.
the smell of sweat, lipstick on the rim of a glass,
coffee stains on a term paper.
initials carved into a tree that swell over time,
scribblings on the top of a desk, gum stuck underneath.
these things are not all nice,
not romantic, and certainly not clean.
but they are how we tap out of individual worlds
and into a community.
they are us.
