at giant supermarket on a sunday
in the self check out line
i tell the machine everything
is a banana because they're cheap
& i'm running out of excuses
for stock piling security.
i picture a whole pile of bananas
overflowing the little scale.
lately my heart is a parking lot
plastic bag. whisper to me
& i'll rush away as if i'm full
of apples. i come to the grocery store
like a church. pluck communion
from cold beds. light candles
with twist ties. where do you go
to place your weekly un-truths?
the self check out machine
knows me by name & sits with
his arms crossed scolding me
for buying more cereal & more bananas
than i can handle. his digital mouth
says i'm a never going to be
a mother (with just his neon number).
not that i want to be. if i could
be anything i'd want to be
a scale. i'd want people to have confidence
in my account of their wholeness.
i don't mean like a number scale
i mean a tipping scale like the kind
the justice tarot uses to measure
right & wrong. stealing is wrong
but what if i think everything i eat
really is a banana? it kind of is.
i'm not stealing anyway, i'm just
adjusting the meaning of my food.
i'm just placing the supermarket
on a scale next to any other
wandering location. in the parking lot
the store's blaring sign will ask me,
in a too-loud voice: HOW ARE YOU?
& i'll lie like you have to
at that volume saying: i'm alright.
where alright means: likely
less human every day or
i am dreaming a great giant scale
to place both of my hands on
& see which one is heavier.
in the back seat my food really does
turn into bananas. a whole little
jungle of them. rustling leaves.
i am not the extraction or the extractor
just a funnel for flesh. a box
of crackers rattles where
dusk should be & in the kitchen
i stand like a shopping cart
trying to decide which banana
to eat first.