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Poetry

Siulee Olivera

She’s slithering around the 

produce aisle again, 

leaving rotted fruit in her wake. 

I can practically smell 

her from here – eau de parfum in the scent  

piss –  

and my nose hairs start to burn. 

There she is, 

that mangy, moldy, raggedy 

old bitch. 

Who even let her out? 

She’s Patient Zero and they’re keeping  

her for further experimentation –  

I can tell by the way her skin melts off her  

face, oil rejecting water. 

–  

She hobbles over with that  

rat’s nest on her head along with 

18 cans of sardines 

2 pounds of bananas (not organic) 

5 avocados (organic, 94225, and, yes, they are on sale, but, sure, I’ll put one back) 

a 24 pack of cat food (sorry, this coupon is expired) 

3 dinner plates 

4 packs of raspberries  

10 two-liter bottles of Diet Pepsi 

3 packs of Poland Spring water 

(Yes, I’ll let you know when you hit $300) 

5 bags of various onions 

and a bunch of other shit  

she doesn’t need. 

So I pack the bread on the bottom,  

all the glass goes in the same  

paper bag, I spit on her receipt, and, 

since I’m on a roll now, I flip her 

cart over and slap her across her stupid fucking face. 

–  

Hello! Do you have a store card that you’d like to use today?