For the first time, researchers find microplastics deep in
the lungs of living people—and that reminds me of the
first fleece jacket I owned, teal with snap buttons. There was
time enough, walking the yellow halls of school, where student
researchers watched mold grow in petri dishes, to
find bits of soda cap and nylon fibers on my tongue, a
microplastics constellation, a generation of packaged foods.
Deep stairwell corners where I shared lip gloss in kisses, notes written
in the margins of Vonnegut and Dickinson:
the young think what lasts is them, but it’s the plastic in our
lungs which will lie sprinkled about the bones
of all of us, this unwilled detritus, this
living petroleum. Our blood is Day-Glo bright. The
people we love speak sonnets out of littered throats.
(p. 4, The Hong Kong Review, Vol. III, No. 3)