Today's poem is My Choosing by Robert Carr. It is read by Samaa Abdurraqib.
My Choosing
I’ve sworn off bipeds and will not
discuss the weather
with anything covered in sparse
hair or antiperspirant.
I speak to feather-drift, mudsling
facing a choked lake,
dips in sunrise, a confusion of earth
in touch with air.
A home where plants of many
colors cry for cohesion
to set root. My husband built this
plastic-wrapped house,
vinyl mimicking a time when board
and batten required nail.
White house with black windows,
collection of glass eyes,
a crushed stone drive, cemetery
of neighbors, a split road.
A short-lived space I name,
My Choosing.
In every window I see the glare
of someone else’s worry.
Enough alone!
The coop is sadly sucking
moisture from sleeping chickens.
The raised garden beds,
metal troughs built to water horses,
gargle on manure.
Birds have lost wing barbs,
maples have dropped
blades, grasses by the drive
have burst wads of seed.
Nothing interests them.
The compost moves, bins of rot
are calling, mini-pumpkins
tossed from last year’s table,
acorns resurrected, aching
heads of red peppers,
and underneath, a culture
of collapsing tomatoes,
civilized worms.
Everything is brown and green, and green,
and brown. These layers ferment.
The collection of glass eyes looks down,
glints from window sash.