Love Song to My Neighborhoods by Kelli Russell Agodon
Sometimes I stroll through forests just sprayed for the gypsy moths. I throw a rock into the bushes to distract the hunters. Deer me. I am writing to my hazards. Open gutter to the lake, green oil, paint dumped— I swam there, cut my foot on a beer bottle and kept paddling to years by the power plant, my bed placed so I could see the voltage through my window, an evening sparked from metal towers. I was pulsing beneath an uncharged moon. Still am. Let me introduce you to the nuclear sub base, the girl next door. At night, missiles leave their home on trains, protesters appear on tracks a day too late. Afternoons, I buzz to the hum of the generator. I know your lecture in my radioactive heart: sing organic, vegetarian bliss. But I can afford to live here. I am a poor it. Open my wallet and find. . . Moths? Coins radiating? A small hazmat team? Let’s dream big together. Turn off the lights. Watch my lungs glow. I know you’d pay to see them.