Gas & Food
1 Minute Read Time
Whose words are these,
refusals astonishing my tongue
like broken teeth,
how many have I swallowed
bad days, allowing the condemned
gas station up the block
to be labeled baggage,
the way I have my debt-collection phone calls,
or divorce,
or my apartment’s warping floor
where figurines and diaper boxes idle?
A sprawl this extensive breeds
empty pockets, and silences
that someone will insist on filming,
camera fixed to capture
what they call collapse. How horrible
to be you, they say,
as though the La-Z-Boy left rotting
on my neighbor’s driveway
were code to be deciphered,
and hallelujah from the rubble
the acceptable response. This is not
the end of days, but Thursday:
this morning, I drove my child
to watch planes taxi at the airport
where no one on staff cares enough
to chase us off. At the supermarket,
Gala apples are on sale, again, each so swollen
they insist on being shared.
Whose words are these,
pushing through my chest like hurts,
so unfamiliar they must be pronounced
over and over, until they are understood?
Read more from Issue 18.1.
