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, Paintbucket.page, and The Westchester Review. His microwave is haunted.