ISSUE 6

Mark Dunbar

 

Caveat Emptor

 

Here I come full-fledged haunting  

the supermercado, no use explaining

that I’m not the last of my species,

that I don’t have something to prove

waving the winning bid on my victory lap,

desperado that commerce has slapped on the back

here in this clean-as-a-lab space

where they might cut diamonds on the side,

chrome knives shining,

the alter killing floor wild with color

the white warm muffled fluorescent

roar, that cover

for the secret we covet and despise,

what vouches for all our digging in the earth,

that grubbing energy (twin

to hunger) you’d like

to think will double dutch but really just

leads you by the nose

down the aisle

looking for something to purify

with cellophane and a brush

of titanium oxide, dainties

we die for,

the sea salt, the strudel, the garlic dip,

stacked on cheery tables that Christ himself

wouldn’t turn over.

 

So what to make of you

standing at your register with that

smudge sprawling your forearm,

that dark-brown-almost-black tuxedo sleeve

that, puzzled out, becomes a skeleton tattoo,

a rakish stunt to frazzle HR,

 

perhaps, or a clown anarchist’s idea

of the perfect upsell,

a memento mori surprise

that grabs me by the throat

so that when I put the dark wine

down to match your arm,

I see that what my life is missing
is extravagance,
so bring back three more bottles,
arrange them on the counter,
and turn to meet your gaze.

 

 

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