OK, Earth.
I’ll learn to love rot.
I’ll learn to love things
that are rotting. I’ll learn
to see that in many kinds
of death there are also
kinds of life, and I’ll learn
to see that life and death
are interdependent.
I’ll learn to compost,
and I’ll learn to love
composting. I’ll learn
to love fertility, although
it is something I will never
achieve, until I myself
am fertilizer. I get it,
Earth. I was never as sterile
as I thought. I saw myself
as one thing, but I was
another. I was looking out
from my body, so I couldn’t
really see my body. But still,
Earth, is it OK if I keep
loving sterility too?
Is it all right if I still love
clean white surfaces?
Marble. Porcelain.
I can’t unlove bleached linens,
or a black leather couch,
wiped down. I’ll still love
Glass. Clear glass.
And a man’s sperm,
dying on my chest,
or in my mouth.
I’m going to love that too.
At the core of a nuclear
reactor, under the water,
it glows blue. It’s almost
the same blue as the wall
of a glacier, when cleared
of snow, and polished,
but in the reactor it gives
off its own light,
like an appliance
in my kitchen, in the dark.
It’s a sun, underwater,
but blue and deadly
and quarantined,
safe in all respects
except the waste,
the forever lasting waste.
in black capsules,
the opposite of life,
the end of the glow,
anti-fecundity in a color,
the opposite of life,
remainder of what warms you,
or cools you, if it’s summer.
I don’t want to love
that blue anymore.
I want to love the soil,
and the worms.
My best chance
at giving life
to another thing.
My best chance
to survive.