XXII. Ethically Sourced Contrition.

(Delivered barefoot, indoors)

I would like to begin

by acknowledging the land.

Not in abstraction,

but in soil,

tactile,

tilled,

and previously occupied.

The ground that agreed,

without signature,

to carry the weight

of my ambitions.

I honour the forests

that once stood here.

They photosynthesized in innocence,

never suspecting

they'd be traded

for blueprint,

deed,

and open-concept living.

To the trees

whose spines now hold

my dining table,

my bedframe,

and the drawer that always sticks:

your bodies linger.

I am sorry

for all the condensation rings.

Truly.

To the fox,

the badger,

the birds,

whose eviction notice came

in the form of diesel and steel:

your burrow

is now

my breakfast nook.

I’ve placed a decorative throw

where your children once slept.

It is labeled ethical.

I believe them.

To the soil,

flattened and compacted

beneath my home:

your stillness is appreciated.

(Please don’t shift.

I was told the foundation is sound.)

To the stone,

quarried to tile

my bathroom floor:

may your fragments enjoy

the warm hum

of radiant heating.

To the water, once feral,

now piped and pressurized:

I see your domestication.

To the wind,

filtered,

ducted,

civilized,

and delivered

in cool imitation:

I am grateful

for your compliance.

It is not lost on me

that even air

is drafted,

obeys,

and never questions

why it can't

be free.

To gravel,

to clay,

to ancient ferns

turned gasoline,

to sun-bleached bones of coral

crushed to concrete:

I acknowledge your gifts.

To the ore

torn from mountains

and smelted into wire,

the oil

siphoned from prehistoric grief,

the limestone

shattered for curb appeal:

thank you

for your service

to modern convenience.

And to the land itself:

parcelled, named,

tamed, renamed,

renamed again.

Staked and claimed,

drained, shaped,

taxed and retaxed:

I kneel (figuratively)

in reverence

for all you've endured

to accommodate

my sectional sofa.

May I continue

to reap the fruits

of this arrangement—

with mindfulness,

moderation,

and reusable bags

(branded as eco-conscious),

made from the pulp

of your fallen.

Not in abstract.

But in presence.

Thank you.

I'm sorry.

I'll try to mean it.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.