A Grocery Store In The Middle Of A Pandemic
I walk on spongy moss, orchestral in its brilliance,
It sings as heels clatter on top of the
Nature as white as linoleum,
And the mushrooms growing between my toes
Tell me there is something wrong with this bog.
I want to reach for the mushy peaches and rotting apricots
Hanging from dancing tree limbs, a dionysus away,
I want to suck on the plums’ intoxication.
Instead I place them, delicately, in crinkled plastic,
In the suffocating machine,
In the nature killer,
In the thing that strangles the frogs.
It is cold here.
It is dead, pinkish flesh behind glass tanks,
The periwinkle scales of the saltwater swordfish
Skinning me, raw, rubbing salt and paprika, and
dried basil in the wounds. It is cold here. It is 68 degrees.
I want to start taking my baths in the lobster tank.
I want to glow red, rubber between my fingers, clenched in permanent fists
Not strong enough to break the glass. I want to be
Hardbacked and sought after and sold for $14.99 each.
I drape myself in the gemstones, softly misted every hour on the hour,
Rutabaga on my clavicle,
and peppers in my hair
And carrots behind my ears,
And the mushrooms that grow between my toes whisper,
And point me forward, towards the doors that open
Into the real world. It is warm there. It is not stale bakery donut scented.
It is not hard moss floors, it is real moss floors
Where the lobsters want to take baths in the ocean with the swordfish.
It is warm there.