Consume
Three poems about Black Friday
Author’s note: I often aim for subtlety in my work. I did not do so here. I would say “sue me” but after this weekend’s sales I fear my bank account is too empty to provide you much satisfaction. Happy holidays.
You, But Better
This blush will make you shine
like a stained glass window.
This foundation will turn your skin
to china. This lipstick, this eyeshadow,
it will make you gleam like a crystal.
When we are finished with you,
you will be such a beautiful
thing. So lovely. So perfect.
So still. We will be able to turn you
this way and that, so the light
catches you, and we can all see
our reflection in your flawless,
unmoving, beautiful painted face.
Like a doll, waiting to be held.
Like a chalice ready to be filled up,
to be drunk down dry. Like, a woman,
almost. Almost like a perfect woman.
Like a perfect almost-woman.
The Hand that Feeds Me
See how carefully I keep
my teeth hidden when
I eat out of your palm?
Don’t worry. You’re safe.
I need what you give me.
You taught me very well.
Is my breath soft enough
as I consume? Are my lips
curved into a radiant smile?
Never fear, I understand
what I am and what you
are. What this is. I know
how this works. You tell
me what I need, what I
want. You are so kind.
Thank you for teaching me
how much I lack. Thank you
for answering questions
I don’t remember asking.
You know how stupid I am,
how little I know myself.
You are so gracious for
feeding me, since you told me
that I must be starving.
Now I understand. I didn’t
think I was hungry, but why else
would you sell me food?
Limited Time
Hurry up! Three hours left! One! Ten minutes!
You asked, we answered, one more day!
But it’s the last one, then it’s all over.
Back to the prices they were last week,
which are suspiciously similar to
what they are now. But you aren’t to pay
attention to that, only to the beautiful
bright red tag with the shiny new number.
Pay attention! One more day hour minute!
You’re almost out of time! It’s almost too late!
I forgot to savor the alpine bite of cold
before I went inside the airport. I always
forget. I am so consumed with the rush,
the cram and pack and crush and press,
the question of who will get to their gate
first, and win. In my mind I practice, then
I’m doing it, then I’m thinking of whether
I did it right. Right up until I step into the
corridor attached to the plane like an
umbilical cord, where there is no insulation
and the winter can snap at my nose
one more time. Time slows and is gentle
for me. It knows what I require, it waits for me.
I heave a deep breath, gulp down the cold.
I still have time. I have all the time I need.