Poetry & Prose

we’re not going to compost

Compost makes me angry.

I don’t get mad at the full dishwasher
No hard feelings to the dirty bathtub.

But yesterday, I thrust my hand into the
Bin full of banana peels and coffee grounds
And pulled out a sun-kissed, juicy yellow pepper.

Rinsed it off, sliced it up, and had the
Thin, golden bangles for lunch.
As the spice warmed my lips, I thought,
Each day we’re moving closer to death.

I’m not worried about our death
But the death of the world around us.
It’s not going to be us slowly composting,
There will be no new life.

It’s going to be our forests on fire.
Our oceans rising up, swallowing us whole.
Toxic rain falling from the sky, poisoning our rivers,
Droughts scalding us dry.

But I don’t get angry at the fires or the oceans.
I just get angry at the compost.