Guo Feifei

dreamscape in the supermarket aisle

on sundays, my mother teaches me how to define ripeness—
with the crack of palm against skin, the bruised flesh of apples
purpling into her carefully bagged eggplants. sometimes,
the only way I know this is a dream is when the lights flicker,
fireflies gasping out of life. always the same purchases,
same cashier, when she tells me she likes how america tastes—
our palms drenched in melted hershey, tongues the color of
stale gumdrops. here, the only way I know something is fresh:
if it’s labeled or it is killed in front of my eyes. I learned how to
select the right cans from the shelves, how to hide my first loves
between the forks and the spoons, lipstick stains on napkins.
how forgive can be a noun lost in translation, exchanged in
braised pork belly or a cow’s still-beating heart. america’s
dream found me open-mouthed in the pharmacy aisle, nyquil
running down the sides of my mouth, body parallel to the vomit-
laced tiles. this way, departing is more an object than anything,
a letter typed in nutritional facts and chemical warfare. for years,
mother, I’ve done good deeds, let my love defrost in the dim
kitchen light, shielded every knife on the countertop inside
my own body. only here are we just two silhouettes
creeping up the backs of shopping carts, wire bent
into spirals, its ribboned choreography turned the flourish
of ink strokes in your name, typography on a thrown-out receipt.

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Guo Feifei is a current junior at Stanford University. If you are reading this, she hopes you have a great day.