WILLY NILLY WAL-MART - monic ductan

Georgia sun on asphalt. Flip flop into open warehouse. Thighs sticky. Wet, metal cart feels like phlegm on doorknob. Close eyes slowly, a drawn breath. Anticipates, sees bodies surrounded by green apples.

Grapes mashed, run over, juiced. $3.99/pound? Price justifies dire death.

Hand reaches across breast, elbow to nipple.

Oh my god! Excuse me, m’am.

It’s just a titty, sir, whispered between painted lips.

No cheddar cheese cubes. Oh God! Why? Her breath—a disappointed huff—feels like kiss dropped on neck.

Carts coming. Wily angles. Squeaking. Whining. Laughing.

Clumsy feet.

Kids leaning outta buggies.Hands on bare legs. Hands reaching for Trojans. Hands rubbing pillows. Hands caressing melons. Hands bouncing balls.

Big pile of newspapers toppling over. Some resting unfolded.

Some rumpled.

Few neat.

Black girl with a rifle, packing heat and buying shells.


Vow never to come again, til next week.

Monic Ductan
Cynthia Kadohata