It Is a Drowsy Heaven by Matthew Milia
When you order carryout from the bar
down the spring alleyway
but never go to retrieve it
because you wanted more to feed your curiosity
of what the person who answers the telephone's
voice might sound like—
male or female
casual or hurried
dulcet or graveled—
because you wanted more to feed your curiosity
of what the person who answers the telephone's
voice might sound like
than you wanted the cheeseburger
with cheddar cheese both on top and stuffed inside
curiosity more
than wanting to stuff the cheeseburger, itself, into
your aging mouth capable still
of elasticizing back to its attractive-youth shape
every now and then
when screwed up into a certain rare innocence—
you know then
that
you need to find better ways to get your kicks
on a Wednesday night
in mid-April.
And every few months you do a deep-Google search
for the travel soccer coach
who cut you from the team at age 12
by whose surgical excision your mother
lost her sole social identity.
(I somehow found his current phone number and
slammed my laptop
shut.)
Current life
is applying to a Craigslist ad
to write a shitty clickbait listicle
boasting your state's quirky attractions
So—
in a suburban salon my cousin gives me a younger
haircut as my mom thumbs a magazine in the mirror behind
and I see all the sweetness blooming within our pathos
there—
coating the single fake tooth
denture
on the table beside her.
The broken springtimes
within us
are coated, too, in a film—
abrupt sweat
and
absolute
grief
slicked petals
dripping pollen and
hamburger grease—
and the acidic perfume
your mother likes
(that you can never
afford enough of at
Christmastime)
will turn a rancid
nectar
decades from now
somehow
most
of
the
time.
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
areudirty
annaxmalina
gummygunk
pixelskylines
