real food

I was disinvited at the time, still drowning in trying

dinner is here, sit down    

I woke and fell face-first into god’s crotch

it was so soft there. and you were so pink          

you turned me onto meat and liquor

you, energy healer half-sold on  

the magic 

when I was kept by only myself        

I kept myself hungry 

spiritually. 

I missed the appointments         I did harm     

now I eat how god loves:

ravenously, what I wanted           

was marriage then divorce. to be

an immortal, consistent cartoon

to change my mind

about big shit. glamor!

you the beneficiary would be warned              

of certain unscrupulous elements

to remain always on             

so as not to be a victim of circumstance. the onlookers 

will claim it was like:

forcing paint through a sieve 

feeding rodents to a reptile like a keeper

trying to kill – not stun – through her last shift

baby, they’re off the christmas card

the extraction was successful

the biopsy came up blank, doesn’t

that please you?

like piss in the hair of something gorgeous! 

we’re done 

publicly discussing this. television is just for the villains

Serena Devi is a writer from Kentucky, currently based in Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in Angel Food, The Recluse, Michigan City Review of Books, and more.