Letter to Rubbermaid and Tupperware

This entry is part 69 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

Dear aggregate of semi-synthetic solids, dear
clear acrylic, polyester, silicone, polyurethane
or halogenated plastics; menagerie of molded
food boxes separated from their lids and falling
to the floor as I root around in the kitchen
cabinets— I’m certain my ancestors could not
have had the same early morning dilemmas
as I do: where to stash that bit of leftover
scrambled egg or steel-cut oatmeal, which
cute snack holder will keep the grade-
schooler’s cut-up kiwi and blueberries
from spilling and turning the bottom of her
book bag into a mulch of paper and fruit.
Outside, chipmunks traverse a fresh cement of
wintry mix, their tails italic with urgency.
A bento box holds carrot flower cups and
shiso leaves against neat rows of jeweled rice.
Here, shelves of ice-coated branches rattle
in the wind; unrolled, how far east would their
cellophane sheets reach? On highland trails
in my childhood home, woodsmen make
their way to town with provisions in leaf-
lined baskets: boiled shoots and purple yams,
salads of curly fern; dried venison and quail
fermented with smoke, salted with dew.

Luisa A. Igloria
02 21 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Series Navigation← Little Girding SongLetter to Spam →

2 Comments


  1. I love this! How beautiful real food can be, when not yanked out of its natural context.

    Reply

  2. beautiful… so far from my computer screen and dull desk

    Reply

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