ISSUE 6
Mark Dunbar
Caveat Emptor
Here I come full-fledged haunting
the supermercado, no use explaining
that I’m not the last of my species,
that I don’t have something to prove
waving the winning bid on my victory lap,
desperado that commerce has slapped on the back
here in this clean-as-a-lab space
where they might cut diamonds on the side,
chrome knives shining,
the alter killing floor wild with color
the white warm muffled fluorescent
roar, that cover
for the secret we covet and despise,
what vouches for all our digging in the earth,
that grubbing energy (twin
to hunger) you’d like
to think will double dutch but really just
leads you by the nose
down the aisle
looking for something to purify
with cellophane and a brush
of titanium oxide, dainties
we die for,
the sea salt, the strudel, the garlic dip,
stacked on cheery tables that Christ himself
wouldn’t turn over.
So what to make of you
standing at your register with that
smudge sprawling your forearm,
that dark-brown-almost-black tuxedo sleeve
that, puzzled out, becomes a skeleton tattoo,
a rakish stunt to frazzle HR,
perhaps, or a clown anarchist’s idea
of the perfect upsell,
a memento mori surprise
that grabs me by the throat
so that when I put the dark wine
down to match your arm,
I see that what my life is missing
is extravagance,
so bring back three more bottles,
arrange them on the counter,
and turn to meet your gaze.
Mark Dunbar is a former teacher and writer originally from Columbus, Ohio, and now living outside Chicago. He attended Kenyon College where he was the recipient of the American Academy of Poets Award.