Holy Fruits of the C-Town in Brooklyn

Belle Gearhart

I go to the grocery store at night to try and cure my depression

God’s face is in an overly ripe yellow mango, and I shove

my finger into His nose, damp guts seeping out

sticky and sweet, like you told me I was

I bought things I did not need: brillo pads, pigs feet, chayote squash

Spent $14.35, the last few doses of serotonin rattling in my brain,

just to be in a place with people who lived as ghosts

and to feel my skin prickle in the ice of the freezer section.

I want to sleep in the bread aisle, my nose filled with

yeast and crumbs and the ends of loafs that no one eats

Until the stock boy tells me:

Get out, your time is up here.