Lunch Break In America
By Gina Tranisi
I’ll have a burrito bowl. White rice. Black
beans. Fajita veggies. Double protein. Double
back. Half-scoop of pico. No, I want a bowl of
broccoli cheddar. Not an apple, a baguette on
the side. I said a bowl of hot sad. I said a
Mediterranean bowl. Quinoa. Chickpeas.
Cucumber salad. A bowl of overturned
stars. Not stars, salmon. I want a poke bowl
with upstream fish. White rice. Wasabi mayo.
A bowl of fixed-blade knives. A bowl of billboards
for missing women who are becoming dead
as we send words back-and-forth inside
this speaker box. This metal order machine.
This Tupperware container of my voice.
Might be the last thing anyone hears
from me. So, an order of asada. I said a bowl
of bullets. Not a cup of guns. A bowl. A howl.
A howl of nightclub neon. A tourniquet. A bowl
of grandfathers who salute shots fired against
tyranny. A tyranny of Jell-O shots. A blue raspberry
rifle. A stiletto glitter shoe, stomping teeth
on beat. No beets. A beating. A bruise. I want to eat
a bowl of unbearable. I’ll need utensils, too.
Did you hear me? I said I want the corner
of an American flag to wipe my hungry
bloody queer star spangled mouth.
