—Theodore Roosevelt
The garbage disposal gurgles
with each hunk and scrap
fed into the drain.
I imagine
piranhas
chomping our leftovers.
Razor teeth rip through gobs
of pot roast and potatoes,
a whirlpool
of refuse,
red-bellies ravenous for dreck.
Don’t people tumble out of boats
into schools of fanged appetite?
Well, actually, that’s bunk.
A shoal won’t waste
their energies skeletonizing a bum
backstroking in the Amazon.
Not when fruits, leaves, and even carrion
are as plentiful
in the waters
as skins, rinds, and chicken bones
in this churning mincer. And what if
blood in a river did excite a frenzy?
I’m no scavenger.
I am scared
of needing sharp teeth, of scouring
flood plains and food pantries
alone, of watching the cow
touch the water
and not caring
what people see me do. Food bits goop
to the drain-mouth. I’ll flick the switch
off and push the slop down the chamber,
slipping my hand
into the absent sound
of a whirring blade, a gnashing knife,
somehow always thankful,
in spite of what I know,
I get my fingers
back.
Jackson Benson (They/Them) has poems published or forthcoming in Raleigh Review, Artemis Journal, Asterales, storySouth, and The Greensboro Review. A graduate of the Creative Writing Program at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, they currently reside in Cary, NC.