🙂
When my order of slime comes in the mail
I feed each textured batch its own dribble
of borax and spring water. The parcel
might as well be a newborn left at the door.
We play Loving Family and Caregiver.
We play Spa Day. I pull their puddy muscles
and twist their pliant bodies at angles
that feel good for both of us. I shout bubblegum!
and one of them pops. I say what a life, huh?
and each of them sighs like they had been holding
their breath for centuries. Over time, the slimes
harden. No amount of activator can seem to fill
their lungs with stretch. I play Mourner,
and in my mania, read film reviews of The Blob
fifty times over. One thing I learn
is that the movie was almost called The Glob
that Girdled the Globe and I feel again
girdled in misery. That week
after the garbage men come to collect
the slime bricks girdled in their deaths, the city
adds a new traffic sign outside my house. Now
every time a car drives past traveling under
a designated speed, the sign glows a pixel-slick
smiley face. Big and round and radiant. I play
Small Joy. I play Bright Light. It’s embarrassing
the things that have kept me alive this long.
Adam Gianforcaro is the author of the poetry collection Every Living Day (Thirty West 2023). His work can be found in The Offing, Poet Lore, Third Coast, Northwest Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Delaware.
