by Drew Krewer
Drew Krewer is author of the chapbook Ars Warholica (Spork Press) and co-edits The Destroyer. His work has appeared in Troubling the Line: Trans and Genderqueer Poetry and Poetics, Diagram, Afternoon Visitor, and Dream Pop, among other publications. He holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Arizona and lives in the desert.
SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE A SHOPPING PLAZA
I'm drowning in plastic bags that are endlessly thanking me.
They refuse to make a cake that says, "You're dead to us & we hope you fail."
Is this even legal?
The verdict of the food court transcends time, shapes pretzels and their hatred.
I'm a coin the couch has eaten, I'm the couch that eats the coin. My role elusive and out of circulation.
The big fridge emptied of frozen peas, with no potatoes in sight, and a birthright to bathe in gravy.
Our nutrition powered by manicures.
A dispute over appearance, a clean-up in produce: broken melon death-flesh, lips split open, some violence I deserve.
Waffling over shampoo, restraint of essence, a desire to leave no trace.
When I open my eyes, a condiment flows out. People rush before me with little pleated cups. They're starving. I feel famous.