Junk: Anne Trelfa
01. Writer
–
Anne Trelfa
02. Theme
–
Junk
03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–
Daughter:
Landfill
04. WRITING
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Kelvin, appeared daily at the dump, the sun barely rising over what the neighbors nicknamed, “Molehill Mountain.” Seagulls nesting in crushed styrofoam cups, their webbed feet smashing milky feces, adding to the faux-mountain’s snow-covered peaks. He never forgot his turkey and cheese on white bread rolled in a brown-paper-bag, smashed under his arm and navy, pit-stained T.
He worked the bulldozer the last five years, anticipating the gear shift that stuck, his biceps taut and familiar with the pull, wiping his forehead with a rag and using the sweat to smear the dust off the “CAT A66G,” tramp stamp on its left hip.
Listening to Bob Marley, dead before he was born, in his headphones wailing, “Rise up this mornin', smile with the risin’ sun, three little birds, pitch by my doorstep, singin’ sweet song.”
He got home, pushing the front door open into last months’ white shirts and sweat stains, stripping down to nothing, peeling white skivvies off sweaty balls and flaccid dick. Constructing his own fortress, today’s drippings, a sacrifice.
Knowing no washer deserved what he force-fed it. Stuffing the peaks and valleys of weeks work into garbage bags, to the laundromat. Fingering his quarters...much too shining, so guilty like he should have said a prayer for them, or the machine.
Kelvin showed up to Mass, and knelt on wooden slabs, lighting a white candle for his relatives, trying to focus on God, focusing instead on the pain in his knees. “with lively sorrow for my sins I offer you this poor heart of mine. Make me humble, patient, pure and wholly obedient to your will,” and tucked the sacred heart devotional under his arm.
Colored light of sun passes through the Passion of the Christ, through the Sacred Heart, in windows across his face. He took in the Body of Christ, turned into flour and water, before his phone vibrated the timer, time to toss his wet clothes into the dryer.
In a machine that created heat and tossed it around, he held THAT smell, passing the garbage dump and its burning blue light, saving us from the buildup of toxic fumes, making it impossible to brew a good cup of coffee. Kelvin brought a green thermos instead that used to belong to his father.
His dad took it to the shop, on the assembly line where man pretended to be giant machines pushing bolts into car parts. Parts to parts, piles on parts, “all my life I’ve never made a damn thing,” he said, threading a needle and never sewing.
His mother, making a life
Gathering fuzz
from corners
of the house.
Kelvin thought out loud to the washing machine, folding taint-ed fabric, “that machine had mercy on him,”
deciding, through forced bidding, to crush him—
admitting, the machine wasn’t great at hearing,
deaf from roaring
nonstop,
and it never heard
the bones and
veins
pop.