This American Dream Tastes Like Government Cheese

This American Dream Tastes Like Government Cheese

Dear Irreverence,

We were raised on food stamps
that looked like British pounds

and dead-end jobs where bodies slung
over crates and cans and cam shafts

or pouches with pennies and coupons
and a giant magnet sign wearing the paint

off the car was just another insult.
This pepperoni’s here for you, America.

We wanna be poor. We wanna live off
the government, you say. Where in hell

does Mr. Government live, I say. Show me
the gated drive, let me buzz in a pizza

box filled with the greasy process that will take
his heart. That’s my message, America,

the poor don’t have to do a damn thing
to ruin your dreams. You’ll gnash the cheese

and constipate yourself. You’ll tell me
your work ethic deserves a Sandals vacation.

I hate to sweat. I hate humidity. We were raised
by swollen feet, the hemorrhages of little

numbers for the same hours on earth as you.
You think you’re traveling to an island getaway.

The palm trees fucking hate you. Remember that.
The sun will take your skin the same.

After Being Diagnosed With Celiac Disease

My wife must wash her lips
before kissing me: the poison

turns me into a balloon
on the couch for days:

a silhouette of wheat stalk
dangerous as the hammer

and sickle: disease
makes one melodramatic,

the weight grain adds to the blood:
I’ve been so heavy

with thoughts of death: the American
goldfinch perches on the window

sill, gazes at our family, asking
for water in this heatwave:

I’ve learned to complain frankly
to all the random experts:

family, friend, supposed foe: you
have no idea

what this body says to me
when I ignore it: I don’t understand

how one can mock pronouns
when we know so very little

of what happens within our own skin,
much less another’s.