Years ago, in a university poetry class,
I had to write a poem to plastic. I said
I was both ashamed and not ashamed
for always needing it. Another student
braver than me read an apology aloud,
saying she was sorry for using plastic
before throwing it out—that we treat it
as we do women, underpaid laborers,
even our bodies. Wanting repentance
to make me whole, I quietly chimed in,
said I was part plastic; plastic part me.
Today, it’s spring—sunlight trickles in
through my windows. It’s tricky to tell
if the sun rising each day is forgiveness
or mere indifference. I take out the trash
with its takeout containers and remnants,
telling dirty bags they’ll live beyond me
to spend an infinity gazing up at the sun;
I’m too ashamed to admit they’ll never
be the better part of me. All they can do
is to look up at things lovelier than them.
I promise, I think, looking at the plastic,
to reduce and recycle. To better myself.
To do penance so I’ll be forgiven. Then,
I go inside to celebrate how clean I feel.