"My love is a hard-won landfill," by Hollie Dugas
My love is a hard-won landfill,
a busted orange peel covered in ants,
a postcard with a soaring eagle
never returned. My love is a handful
of burnt matches, a discarded phone
ringing Amber Alerts. My love
is a hot tin roof, a hunting knife
at one with fur. I have no desire
to sweep this love out — bacteria
eating on the sweet of bodies,
a clutter of raccoons pillaging broken
eggshells. My love smells hazardous;
it warrants caution. It is a tiny
unlivable planet. There’s nothing
to see in my barricaded dumping
ground, walls graffitied with vulgar
words. Still, I treat my junkyard
as I would a museum, throw myself
into the library of trash, a plastic bag
floating her sea of ruin, and begin
my work because I believe a heart
can be remade. So, let me guide you
through the scrap metal and tires —
complete construction — my replica
of childhood, my rigged and rusty
go-cart, my precious heap of pollution.
Photo Credit: Tory Romo