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His mother bought the boy a rootbeer cat
but the mouth only produced a low
buzzing sound that hurt his ears and scared
him. His mom apologized like she had just
sold the family farm for a tractor.
He thought the cat's motor was
broken so he threw it in the trash can
where its guts fizzled out of its
mouth in a pool of syrupy madness,
buzzing, even though his mother told him
not to put liquids in the garbage.
Because he didn't have the rootbeer cat,
the boy demanded he get a noodle dog
from the vending machine.
His mother ran out the door with her
purse and a raincoat in case the sky cried
shallows like an overbearing sentimental
grandmother. She pinched a coin and ordered
a noodle dog. It was happy to see someone -
finally! It's stringy tail flapping all the way home.
But when the boy saw the dog,
he cried because its eyes
followed him across the room and were made
of green olives. And he hates olives. And Italian.
The dog is too noodley for him to want to
hug, so he puts it in the
trash can with the rootbeer cat
where it marinates in the liquid
like a cruel, sweet sauce.

The Grecian Sense

In the Grecian Sense,
you tell me with charcoal
stain fingers

No lack of shoulder
No lack of muscle
No lack of hip

I could support the sky.

You understand the light
on my knees
and the shadow
on my nose,
but I’m here to
remind you that Sappho
was true,
but men also wear bodies.