An Ode to Marian

Oh Marian: the most beautiful supermarket checkout boy,

This if for you.

This is for your burnt sugar skin,

Your clear blue eyes,

Your indeterminable accent,

Your effeminate name,

Your inexplicable presence at Ralphs,

At midnight,

On labor day.

Any day.

I would say you don't belong there, but you do.

Because your immaculate kindness cuts through the San Fernando Valley grime,

That the customers brush off their lapels,

Onto your radiant cash register,

Made bright with goodwill and the refracted light of your wedding ring,

Which you are too young to wear.

* * *
I saw the way you made tie-dye, bag lady's heart swoon,

When you loaded her armageddon-supply of water bottles into her personal cart.

(Where do they sell those things? The almost-homeless surplus store?)

And even though I was on guard,

Aware of your saccharine side-smile,

Gracious ways,

You still raised my inner blood,

When you heaved my gallon of whole milk onto the raised shelf on the counter and said,

"I help you a little bit". Then: flash!

Golden beams dash out from the corners of your mouth into the corners of my skull.

Retinal ganglions on fire: red, green, blue, BLACK BLACK BLACK GOLD.

Hallelujah!

* * *
I'd say this was an ill-placed missed connection,

A finger signing in the dark,

But I look for you every time.

You can't hide from My Eye.

If you are in the express line, I toss my sixteenth item to the wind.

If everyone is jamming up your aisle, craning for a glimpse of your ambiguously european chin,

Then I ignore the market monitor, asking me once, then twice, whether I might prefer taking advantage of the self checkout system.

No, thanks, I'm fine.

It will be Marian and I, until the receipt prints,

And he hands it over bashfully,

"Thank you, um, Ms. Carrion."

I think "My dead flesh for your caress,

Pliable carrion for your gentle teeth."

Amen.