by William Doreski
Whole continents of trash adrift
on smooth planes of the planet.
We’ve contributed our share
of aluminum cans, plastic
bottles, cat litter, newspaper,
corrugated cardboard boxes.
Certain powers recycle these,
slowly, into subhuman forms,
far more organic than we are,
that shadow us even at noon
when we’re scanning lunch menus
or running to the post office
to collect our third-class mail.
These creatures reek of landfill
and dump, but accumulate
the discarded educations death
shucks from the brightest of us.
Now they control the nation
with seamless dark occluding
our mirror versions of ourselves.
Malformed grammars prevail.
Words become words within words.
No one manufactures precision
instruments, no one produces
sterile medical supplies
anymore. We’ll live frugally
without visiting the coffee shop
or state liquor store. Our faces
will slip inside us and leave
only scar tissue showing.
The trash accumulates here
and there and everywhere else,
and the organic recycling
generates new vistas broad enough
to house many sorts of beings:
some rattling in metal shells,
some thriving on vinyl diets,
some sporting corrugated smiles,
and all of them sneaky enough
to overlap their shadows and ours,
speaking through and for us before
we can open our mouths to sing.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
