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.