Kerrie Alexandra McNair grew up in Toronto and is living in London, ON currently as a Creative Writing student at The University of Western Ontario. She works as a reader for The Rusty Toque and her work has appeared in The Boiler Journal.
Be polite to them all, they know you wear contacts.
Naked holographs conscious of how we do matter.
Low, they call us by our middle names
standing in Postmaster uniforms;
opal omniscience in their one good eye
populating the block in multiples of dogs.
Having no originality, we walk them to the curb
with the garbage when the sun goes down.
It’s nice to see you
From which lobe, it doesn’t matter does
it?s dense in here.
Smog and boots kicking around
outside in the raining over and over
again I sit here saying don’t say it.
Don’t say it. See it’s taking off
all my stratums like a adult,
with holes and burns and denim
rough stucco exterior
versions of how and what it might be like
’cause you were there when I asked.
Who knows about what I think I do?
Eat meat and swallow –
don’t worry we trimmed
the fat and the veins are dry.
When you came in,
did you shut the curtain?
There’s hair gel and egg yolk
on the counter if you like.
We all drink our tea straight
and wear jackets for the cause.