by Andrew Christoforakis

I have bought mint cookies
from Girl Scouts
when broke. Have inserted
them whole into my open mouth
like floppy disks. Have bonded
with men on the strength
of our football teams,
calling them “ours”
as if all those mothers’ sons
were just extensions of ourselves,
as if one could ever truly own
a waterfall. Looked up high school
friends on Facebook to see pictures
of their children, how they mirror
their mothers and fathers
like fogged glass or the backs
of spoons. Waved to strangers
on the subway and survived.
And I have had my blood tested
to search for traces of Viking,
horse thief, duke or polio victim.
Marked the box labeled “burial.”

Write my epitaph like a list
of ingredients: “flesh, bone,
and crushed little stars.”

Andrew Christoforakis (he/him) is a poet and cubicle-dweller based in Naperville, Illinois. He has had work published in The Ekphrastic Review, West Trade Review, B O D Y, and others. His chapbook, But What If No One’s Looking Out for Us?,  won first prize in the Beyond Words Fourth Annual Chapbook Awards.