Working Produce

Neil Gabriel Kozlowicz

An unfortunate blunder, I did not wax the proper skins and now

I am breathing fine mist from the fruit sprayer.


There are 49 shadows on this broccoli tree and eight eyes

look at my right hand as it moves and clutches


nothing in particular, an orange. I stare back at the buttons

on her slacks, they keep the heavens at bay.


Two men outside dig into the ground with their hands to unearth

a giant stone. Their fingers slide and the tips wear down


on the edges. This spinning and struggling comes to nothing.

The rock will not budge. And the oranges are raw. Please, go


home, all of you! The earth has had its fill of games and magic

and carnivals. Go home to your gravestones and grinders. The


auction is over. The hounds are loose on the grounds and the

wind leaves us in a state of caution, about the sand,

                   in its castles, and in our stomachs, next to the rind.