By Rebecca Joe
Devour me but do not chew.
I do not wish my bones to crunch
in your jaw. Consume me slippery
as a shot of bottom-shelf whiskey.
Lover, mother, father, friend, I will burn
your throat as I leak from the hole
in your voice, tracheotomy—a trailer park ailment
from too many puffs.
I will gather your forgotten cigarette filters,
arrange them into a bouquet, lovingly caress
what you flicked into the road—
you giggled as your burning cherries were squished
beneath the tires of cars that spun
down the roads of the mobile home
court we spiraled down, but never free and away from,
like those handcuffs circled
around your wrists,
around your ankles,
broken from trying to run from fate.
We are destined to be a snack
of the system, feeding
those who owned the prison
that barred you, fattening the ones
who owned you.
If I find the man who profits from your chains,
I’ll barter for your freedom,
I’ll say, “Sir.”
Sir, free us, sir, with the power you bought.
Feed us scraps of your freedom.
Sir, accept my payment. Spritz
yourself with my estrogen—don’t I smell vulnerable?
Sir, I match, don’t I, don’t I match your humanity?
I belong to you and among you, don’t I?
If my clothes leaked
from my body and I dripped
into your wife’s lingerie, you’d see we’re the same
until we’re different, until we melt.
We are convenience
store candy smashed
into your seats, a cheap
taste, too messy.
I’d whisper and breathe
seduction out—sir, I belong.
Can we be seen as human,
even as human trash, see that?
Be humane, call me, call us human,
any kind of human will do.
Sir, love me as garbage. Wad me
as a wrapper. I want you to trash me,
or I want you to buy me.
If you cannot, will you eat me?
I’d rather be inside your belly
than inside this reality where love is
smashed in the jawbone
of a garbage truck,
imprisoned by crushing metal.
Sir, inside you, I’d have more agency,
so birth me or flush
me, just don’t leave me here alone.