The Morning

I use leftover water from three glasses to rinse out cranberry juice from a fourth.

I haven’t heard about conserving water for a long time, but then again I haven’t been in the third grade for a long time.

I use scrap paper, keep the heat down low, dig into the garbage for bottles you’ve thrown away even though our city only pretends to recycle.

I wonder when this will stop, the way my frenetic cross-continental social orchestration stopped.

Hard to hold so many lives inside a house that looks just like us.

A drug lord friend of ours once said he was proud of me, and I didn’t know how to take it.

This morning I’d say I’m doing the best I can.

But somehow this baton I’m waving stifles the string section on the wrong side of the divide.

Perhaps I am no longer a conservationist.

I leave the faucet on and walk to the fridge.

Becca Klaver is the author of the poetry collection LA Liminal (Kore Press, 2010) and several chapbooks. She co-founded Switchback Books and is currently a PhD candidate in English at Rutgers University. Born and raised in Milwaukee, WI, she lives in Brooklyn, NY.

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