Post Road Magazine #28


Christopher Robinson

To raise money for our cheer squad
we decided to hold a hogwash.
We put on bikinis even though it was March,
we asked the Shop-n-Save to use their parking lot,
got our buckets of soapy water and washing mitts
and stood there, goosebumped, waiting
for the local farmers to see Kirsten at the corner—
she's a 34 C—and pull their hogs in
for a wash, knowing that we'd miss
a few spots of mudcrust, that one of us

would lose a finger to those teeth, knowing
that we hated and adored the furtive glances
at our cleavage, the not-quite fatherly
nod and smile.


Christopher Robinson

We tried to explain
that we were simply beyond capacity
already, and another cranium
or two could well near sink us. They
wouldn't listen. So here we are,
in the abyssopelagic zone, lungs full up
with lifeless water, keeping
on because a party
doesn't throw itself.

At least they brought
a halfrack of High Life, and shared
their pharmaceuticals.

Now that we're all dead, we have a little
distance on the event. These things
happen, when you live
the good life,

dancing on the water, knocking
about your cultivated personality,

to the giant squid
and angler fish, deep,
deep below you.

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