I Hear the Tapping

Kristen Lenea Ryberg

I Hear the Tapping

I carry my gratitude 
in a rusty tin bucket,   
leak a trail of surplus 
     from the cracked 
bottom

my bed cool
new garden greens
faucets pour clean

I’m used to simple protections. 

Born into complicity 
and far from the sea's
echoed wash of waves 
distant as shell to ear

I can hear the siren's call 
her tail caught 
     under an island 
of plastic—

pleas her song, holds herself up
elbows rest on webbed waste.

I hold myself up
recycle
vote
garden

still     the pail fills and spills—my detritus. 

I insulate/isolate from 
who/what I donate to

and give-away handmade soap
wrapped in poems,

decide what I can/will do next
without losing too much.

Ears UP Track!