We congregate in aisle ten of the twentyfourhour walmart
in that city named after cigarettes
we find the light, the truth, somewhere
between sara lee pies and sticky krispy kreme
giggling on nothing, sipping a southern suburban
flavor of late capitalist pop we search the shelves
for everything they told us we could find and return empty. How
does one town have so many twentyfourhour stores it’s like
where else could our church be? and sometimes we leave
with shit on our hands, other times we drive with an aching
for hushpuppies and unreasonably large oreo milkshakes; god
bless Cook Out. tattoo John 3:16 on styrofoam so we know
it’s real (did you know they kicked out tr*mp supporters once)
blasting our latest inner turmoil from cheap speakers
not always buckled but safety comes in many guises
eating milkshakes with spoons like
heathens, windows and guards down

***

Yasmina Martin is a doctoral student in African History and poet living in Brooklyn, New York. She grew up between Charlottesville, Winston Salem, Atlanta, and Cape Town. Her poems can be found in blackberry mag and The Vitni Review.

Photo by Tobias on Unsplash 

Help us disrupt the Southern literary landscape.