Holy Fruits of the C-Town in Brooklyn
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.