Poetry
team associate’s final rounds
Quayle McKay
issue four
five minutes remain before
the doors get locked and walmart
is alive in the way i have not been:
a child strains for a pack
of glow in the dark ceiling stars
they are just out of reach,
the metal shelf mere inches
above her head.
there is a man in the soup aisle
sampling stuffed olives
from a cracked jar.
from the curb I see two workers,
they hold their vapes like
safety torches, final bastions
of hope in the sea of asphalt
in which they are marooned.
a toddler sings his debut solo
surrounded by lunch meat
and unwilling onlookers.
one woman is angry
with the way her toaster
burns everything that goes
through it. there is a tan line
where her wedding ring
used to sit.
you can’t trust anything
these days, a man says
into his phone. he leaves with cigarettes
and throws away the receipt.
on their way out they bid me well
goodnight, drive safe
see the sunset if you get a chance
a quart of frozen dairy substitute
bleeds out amongst the craft aisle,
splattering on the tile in deliberate drops.
About the Author
Quayle McKay (he/him) is a queer poet from rural Ohio. He is currently studying biology and English at Marietta College. Quayle has various past publications from small art magazines and is a recipient of the Stephen Schwartz Poetry Prize. His work can be defined as surrealist, grief-stricken, and scientifically inspired.
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