A birthday party for your general’s daughter, 13 years
old with silicone breasts, swine-butt lips, undocumented
male strippers. We dig through your garbage for half-eaten
caviar, unopened champagne bottles, disposable
diapers to wash and reuse. Stick figure
models march down the runway, flash
bulbs popping like gun fire, fingers down their throats
to vomit, to scratch the inside of their mouths,
the applause is violent, addictive as oxycodone,
our doctors won’t refill the prescription. Graffiti
on playgrounds, well-fed alpacas in the palace garden,
mutated children, sleeping in discarded gift
boxes outside the nightclub. We begin to seep
through cracks, to find you, to claim
your fleshy sunburnt offspring for our final meal.
Beth Gordon is a writer who has been landlocked in St. Louis, Missouri for 16 years but dreams of oceans, daily. Her work has recently appeared in Quail Bell, Into the Void, Calamus Journal, By&By, Five:2:One, Barzakh, and others. Follow her on Twitter @bethgordonpoet.
Header Image: Creative Commons, Public Domain, modified.