Despite the fruitfly’s humming gusto often
I believe my waste hazardous, the jaundiced
innards of an apple now laced with human blight—
hazard produced as I consume I cannot escape
the thought. I peel the sticking stigma off
the table to immure it in the styrofoam cup
with traces still of rooibos. I hazard how
styrofoam is borax and heat, expansion
blithe as a solid can be and
the thermal resistance of the hoof
of an ox. How thoroughly opposed
to flesh. Fathom the body in the Bar
where Ray Krone throws darts. Or Ray McIntire
when he makes a life raft for
the U.S. Coast Guard (styrofoam is
after all ninety-nine percent air
enough to save a life). And
the first inklings of napalm in an adjacent
cell cavorting with plutonium triggers—
the Inventor’s Hall of Fame
inducts McIntire just four years
after Arizona inducts Krone into freedom
again, and as I write
styrofoam insulation products
save billions in energy costs.
I too am only the expansion
of polymers when, as the apple
was once exuberant and whole,
I remember the time in the park
after the afternoon bell I plunged
my teeth into my forearm and the force
hurtled me over myself and I knew new
power as trace as mark and said
mom look what sister did to me