You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World

by Ada Limon

NO ETHICAL TRANSITION UNDER LATE CAPITALISM Large hypodermic syringe, peat/vermiculite soil, water, soy plants, 132” x 12” x 12” Inside the needle’s clear chamber, a microbiome. Water and loam and seeds swarming to life. Where it seems as if nothing should grow. The soy sprouts stretch and press against the confines of this artificial sky—their irregular terrarium—roots balled to tiny children’s fists. Seeing this, I wonder if the plunger is glued in place to prevent escape. To prevent what little water seeping away. I don’t have to check to know the roots are rotting, crept through with mold. Soon, the seedlings will drink this place dry, feast away the nutrients, and starve themselves, unknowing. If I had to hazard a guess, the artist will replace this syringe with another, and then another, when no one’s looking. The metaphor is clear, crystalline. Elsewhere, these plants would be harvested and processed. Byproduct stamped with a brand name, peddled by a corporation built on blood and colony. On miles of olive orchards bulldozed, uprooted, razed for monoculture crops. The medicine I swallow every morning. My gender, distilled and sold to me at market price. Each needle, each pill, a seed planted in my body. The roots they grow there, inextricable from theft. From the pooled blood of a stranger. Even if I abandon this medicine that keeps me breathing, the company still makes a killing.