I never asked for this addiction to comfort, yet
here I am, a sucker for slow seduction,
in sweaters made in sweat shops, industries’
bewitching promise of newer dresses,
better groceries, easier ways to travel.
I never asked for designer anything, but
this lotion makes my legs glow in the skirt
that hugs my hips on the fast track
to fitting in, maybe even belonging.
When I was fresh and wanting
to make the planet a healthy place,
I carried my life in a backpack.
That was before marketing beguiled me,
before I succumbed to denim, silk, linen, lace
couches, drapes, floors from the wildest places.
I don’t need a thing, but flooded with desire,
I am consumed by what I have consumed,
aware that few bread tags
are recycled and the beaches of Ghana
cannot breathe under layers of scraps
where children search for anything to sell.
I don’t scream about it. I know I should,
and, on my latest trip to paradise,
in the taxi from the airport to town,
past open burn pits of plastic debris,
I held my nose, mulled over toxic
trespass and tenable solutions,
Until I got to the hotel
where they offered me a drink
and a hammock to swing in
at the edge of a sweltering sea.
—
Former bilingual teacher and mentor in Watsonville, California, Teri writes poetry and volunteers as a docent at a local wetland. A photographer and musician, her poems weave together themes of nature, travel and family. She was a featured reader at the 43rd Santa Cruz Celebration of the Muse in April 2024.
