Cleanup On

by Cheyenne Mann
Visual by Veronica Hernandez

(Aisle 1, Seafood)
It is cold here. 
It is dead, pinkish flesh behind glass tanks,
The periwinkle scales of the saltwater swordfish
Skinning me, raw, rubbing salt and 
Paprika and dried basil in the wounds. 
It is cold here. It is 68 degrees. 
I want to take baths in the lobster tank. 
I want to glow scarlet and savor 
The rubber between knuckles
Caging fingers into permanent fists. 
I want to be hardbacked and sought after 
And sold for $14.99 each. 

(Aisle 3, Fruits)
I want to reach for mushy peaches
Proliferating from tree limbs, a Dionysus away.
I want them to reach back and
Graze fingers with unbridled softness. 
I want to suck on plums’ intoxication,
The tangy sharpness cutting my lips
Until I drip blood as red as cherries, 
The pitless kind, with stems tied into knots by orange peel tongues—
Instead I place them, delicately, in crinkled plastic,
In the polyethylene, in the suffocating machine,
In the thing that strangles the seagulls.  

(Aisle 8, Cleaning Supplies) 
There's a toxicity, I think, that clings to skin 
In the same way chemicals emit from bleach. 
I watch children cover their mouths as they walk past the detergents, 
So as not to inhale any toxins, and I think:
I want to take breath away,
But not like that. 
It is cold here. It is 2-Butoxyethanol soaked 
Liquid dish soap that scrubs away at lobster shell exterior,
Slicing through tissue paper skin in a sterile autopsy, 
Uncovering, in the cavity of my chest, 

(Aisle 9, Frozen Foods)
My heart.