Pollution Cassandra Kulay

Just minutes to reminisce, saying to myself
that was the high time of my existence, not
seeing the dark undercurrents or smelling
the brackish waters. The high time when
everything was clean, packed, pressed,
preserved with salted vigor, the newness
mesmerized my consciousness, how
routinely productive an efficiency of
work could be, the lack of debt involved
in a life in cooperation, knowing
these things kept me reserved and
shining, without sensing the dying spirit
of an era fraught with hysteria,
underneath the surface things were not
cleaned regularly and recycled with
compassion and attachment, I did not
let go with love frequently enough.

Still, I never forgot to close the fridge
door or turn off the light, to never over
pay too much, to say my prayers silently
and to fear the flood of remorse for
all the plans wrecked so far like the
memory was like a tide of pollution.