Mitchell Angelo


From up your gullet crawls puberty’s

late bloom. A goose eats the letters in

your name like jelly beans. He hides inside

a pulped chamber, sleeps in the pits

and fissures. Hissing with all those

ugly teeth. Molars ripen next to

the carrots, julienned.

I sit on the subway neighboring possums.

They read newspapers and drink wet coffee.

One wears a jade necklace and pats his plump

middle. It’s embarrassing, really, finding him

wearing all that costume jewelry. Slimy-toed,

greasy-palmed, pale sprout. I carry a dagger in my red

backpack. I do not know the difference between us

at times. A coyote steps onto the train; a bright purple

fear pours across the platform. His abdomen

produces a hand and waves. I swallow it whole

like a real man.

Mitchell Angelo is a creative writing major at SUNY Purchase College, and the managing editor of Gutter Mag. His work has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer,, and The Westchester Review. His microwave is haunted.