Anna Kirkpatrick ≈ Poem

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Passionate

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I am not passionate about concrete walls and highway overpasses, cars and billboards, factories and plastic landfills. I am not passionate about the drive into Vancouver through the sprawling Fraser Valley. I am not passionate about gridlock and exhaust and cars. I am not passionate about shopping malls. I am not passionate about security guards or cigarettes. I am not passionate about plastic bags or tin cans stranded in puddles. I am not passionate about rainbow oil slicks. I am not passionate about perfume. I am not passionate about vending machines. I am not passionate about florescent lights or pink insulation or vinyl siding.

I am not passionate about

I am not passionate

I am not

I am

I am passionate and alive even here where the heat ripples up off the asphalt. Blood pumping, breath cycling. I am passionate about breath and blood. The way trees breathe and bleed. Pitch on my fingers that won’t rub off. Fire by the side of the lake. No clothes. Swimming. Sun not yet set. Riding my bike home. Going barefoot. Digging potatoes. Watching seeds grow. Discovering plants in unexpected places. Even in the cracks of the sidewalk. Even in the back of a pickup. Even in the mall parking lot. Even here.

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