Poetry » Catherine Moore »

Vera Bradley, Malamars, and deconstruction

In zircon-studded pink sunglasses
this shopper
spits her displeasure
through a wad of Double-Bubble
                                                                        (diva of the dime store).
She has already completed a:
              mall marathon,
                                run of profanity,
                                                  race against mortality.

her sprinting, a salve
each footstep, a pounding
each paper bag, a promising.
Sweets rolled off-the-shelf
this comfort, compulsive and true
                                                                          (hints of love)
for collected bits of buying
stuff that lonely well inside herself.
sssh . . .

She returns home
                                        (vacant)
neck
              (in plastic & paper trappings)
deep
its crinkle sounds are music
to her, crazed with cupidity.

The acquired sits in heaps, like herself
buried in wads of fabric and falsities
the top of her teased hair barely outstretches
her miserable spent haul
                                                        (disorder)
waiting to be sorted.

First – flypaper, Clorox, and Chinette at the bottom
chocolates and imported teas follow households.
Next – Peruvian almonds, if in-season
a Walmart party mix, if not
                                                            (on to)
beddings from Bon-Ton
silks from Saks.
She moves worthless from wrappings
with steadiness, like a pall bearer
stops to admire this pyre, then tops it
with that irresistible
Herberger bear.

Nearly sated, she whimpers in exhaustion
pulls crumpled sales flyers from her purse
                                                                                        (searching)
tosses last coupons on the pile
                                                            (save one)
then flicks and lavishly sets fire to it all
                                                                                  (sati-style).

Sneetch Beach

Sneetches played
green star sprayed
belly games.

Beseeching;
sneetch stars top
rage beach bop!
Tattoos stop
faux-sneetching.

just a smackeral

outside the 7-Eleven
400 lbs of soft human flesh
extricating itself from
behind the steering wheel.

it takes several attempts.
i watch.
i wonder.
‘so why me?’
i’ve not eaten bread in 3 years.

through the window
i spy Twinkies
on the hostess display,
‘what the hell? what good did all the good do me?’

i sip Evian.
i contemplate.
“just a smackeral,” giggles pooh.

a Big Gulp, a bag of Cheetos
dangling from his side
the flesh wiggles back inside the car,

‘why bother keep a dying body healthy?’

the gas pump clicks.