Tradition

I hold out my hand.

I hand over

and I pass on.

I hold out my hand.

I hand over

and I pass on.

Some call this mothering,

this way I begin each day by holding out my hand and then all day

long pass on.

Some call this caretaking,

this way all day and all night long, I hold out my hand and take engine

oil additive into me and then I pass on this engine oil additive to

this other thing that once was me, this not really me.

This soothing obligation

This love.

This hand over

and this pass on.

This part of me and this not really me.

This me and engine oil additive.

This me and not really me and engine oil additive.

Back and forth.

All day long, like a lion I lie where I will with not really me

and I bestow upon not really me

refractive index testing oils and wood preservatives.

I lie with not really me all day long,

and so I bequeath not really me a honeyed wine of flame retardants

and fire preventing agents.

I make a milk like nectar,

a honeyed nectar of capacitor dielectrics, dyes, and electrical insulation

and I pass it on every two hours to not really me.

Not really me is a ram perched on a cliff above a stream,

unable to be quenched by the flame retardant in furniture.

Not really me comes near

and takes a nectar of insulated pipes, and some industrial paints.

Later I pass the breast cup to not really me,

a breast cup filled with sound insulation panels and imitation wood

with a little nectar and sweetness.

And not really me drinks it and then complains a little,

rebuking me, for my cakes of nuts and raisins

are cakes of extraction of crude petroleum and natural gas,

for my apples are filled with televisions and windshield wiper blades.

On my breast are the curls of not really me

and against the brow of not really me wafts plasticizer used in heat

transfer systems.

As drinking not really me takes in anger and in need

not really me drinks from the hand of that sweetest sleep the juice of me

that cup of adhesives,

that cup of fire retardants,

of pesticide extenders.

And as not really me drinks

I cradle the moon and not really me in my right hand

my lips kissing with the dedusting agents and wax extenders.

Then later in the night,

the bed scattered with the stains of cutting oils and gas-transmission

turbines,

the blankets with blends of hydraulic fluid,

we lie there together

handing over and passing on

filled up and attempting to think our way through

economics and labor and time and biology

me and not really me

together.

I'd like to think we had agreed upon this together,

that we had a tradition,

that we agreed these things explained us to us

but when not really me wakes

after drinking the pharmaceuticals and photo chemicals

night after night

and day after day

not really me will sing a song of rebuke,

sing the song of not really me, the song that

goes like Salutations to brominated fire retardants of Koppers Ind.

goes like Salutations to water/oil repellant paper coating of 3M

goes like Salutations to wiper blades of Asahi

goes like Salutations to bike chain lubrication of Clariant International

goes like Salutations to wire and cable insulation of Daikin

goes like Salutations to pharmaceutical packaging of DuPont

goes like Salutations to nail polish of Dyneon

goes like Salutations to engine oil additive of Agrevo E

goes like Salutations to hair curling and straightening of Agsin Ptd. Ltd.

goes like Salutations to insecticide and termiticide for empty green-

houses of Chevron Chemical

goes like Salutations to greenhouse flowers of Monsanto

goes like Salutations to insecticide to kill fire ants of Rigo Co.

goes like Salutations to plasticizers of US Borax Inc.

Not really me's song will go on and on

Not really me will sing it all night long

hour after hour for weeks on end.

It will have eighty-five company names in it.

It will have twenty-one chemical functions in it.

It will have ninety-seven products in it.

It will have two hundred trade names in it.

Not really me's song will rotate through these names in all their

combinations.

And then it will end with another part that is as long as the first and

inventories the chemicals that not really me does not yet know.

But oh those of you who are not really me at all

I say let wisdom be your anvil and knowledge your hammer.

Hand this over.

Pass this on.

Source: That Winter the Wolf Came (Commune Editions, 2015)

Poetry and Feminism