And so I sat at a tall table in an Ohio hotel, eating delivery: cheese bread with garlic butter, only it was not butter, but partially hydrogenated soy bean oil and regular soybean oil and it came in a little tub like creamer that's also not dairy. America in 2019 means a poem will have to contain dairy that is, in fact, not dairy. On Instagram: a man has bought a ten foot by four foot photo of a bridge he lives beside, bridge he can see just outside his window, window which serves as a ten foot by four foot frame. My materialist mind, I can't shake it. Within a perfect little tub of garlic butter, a relief of workers, of sickles, fields of soy. We were tanners pushed to the edge of the city once, by the stench, the bubble of vats of flesh and loosening skin, back when the city pulled, leather bucket by leather bucket, its own water from wells. Then we worked the cafeterias at the petroleum offices of the British. Then, revolution— Simple. Copyright © 2019 by Solmaz Sharif. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 30, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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