Walmart

Here, at two a.m., survival
is a diamond-hard chore. Fists grip
Trojan boxes and diapers as
the people of Bakersfield push their lives
crookedly down narrow aisles.

A skirmish at register five — a woman
smashes her cart into mine. She is massive
and bull-sly, a living fertility fetish,
two children clinging to knees that seem
an afterthought to her belly and thighs.
She offers no apology, and thrusts her cart
against mine again, metal grinding metal,
until I skate out of her way and allow
her the right of first-in-line.

I resent nothing. The pattern
of her pajama blouse is orange and blue,
rolling with coal-colored shoulders. I have seen
these colors in dreams. If ever I wake
into a new life, she'll appear before me,
she and her several-hued sisters

ageless as mountains, barring my way
to the gates of heaven while they pay
for toilet paper, tampons, and Triscuits.

 

© Jenniffer Lesh