Death & Taxes

Death and taxes sit on a tiled line in tin basins.

A man holds them up to explain the difference,

wiggling each like to wriggling slabs of meat.

Death, he explains, is deep red and spices,

while taxes have pink and white polka dots of fat.

The man is like a balding father, cooing above

a strung mobile, dancing for a young thing that

doesn’t give a shit other than shit itself. He packs

onions into the circular ruts of his dull eyes to cry

at graves he dug himself.

He is a jolting frizz of blonde hair on a crotch rocket,

“Gas or Ass” stickers black out the back of the metallic helmet,

a leather jacket from Target over his embroidered polo and khakis.

I imagine him with black t-shirts under polo Superman style.

Deep v-necks with bold letters spelling out

“my bike isn’t the only thing that can go from zero to one-hundred,”

or maybe even “badass” stamped across flabby chest.

He says your womanly instincts say you don’t want birth control, really.

He says this spinach is the best health insurance you’ll ever see.

He folds the meat into a neat sandwich, force-feeds me one fighting bite at a time.

“death & taxes” is a poem I wrote in 2019. It was published in the feministic series at a) glimpse) of), which you can read online.