Inside the lunchroom, the traveling nuns swell to the size of fruits bursting with seeds
After Ben Mirov
I’m a Martian, but who isn’t? One of us lay slumped against my Dad’s emergency
wheel turner. I can’t remember his name. The instructions said it was neither a
man nor a woman. The mother was a lonely recluse that jabbered about bird-lore
and love. She opened dance-halls in the forest, to make it more Mozambique.
I was taught to keep my mouth tight shut. Outside the lunchroom: padded tufts
and air-sacs, wedgies flying backwards on reefs made of paper. The room had
become a perfect amphitheater with a soft pink afterglow. Someone has to take
charge, so I make an Aloha speech to the wadded chewy depressants gumming
up the footpath.
Jeffrey Grunthaner is an MFA candidate at Brooklyn College, where he’s learning how to write poems, get into heaven, & be a good person. It’s driving him crazy. More of his writing can be found via Google.com.