Poem: Virginia Konchan

Illo for Virginia Konchan's poem.

Golden Corral

The new epoch of total war
is upon us, once again.
We sit down and feast
on a stiff peak
of mashed potatoes,
sides cascading with gravy,
watermelon, rice pudding,
buttered noodles, corn.
It’s buffet-style.
Bodies hum as they
deliver themselves
to the altar of repast.
These days, language
is a mere expedient,
a thing that hastens
the arrival of a thing.
We pay at the front.
Outside the franchise
is a wooden barrel
teeming with flowers.
The chrysanthemums
open their opera throats.
Each object waiting
for the rain to come
thundering, like the idea
of human progress, down.
Virginia Konchan is the author of a book of poetry, The End of Spectacle (Carnegie Mellon, 2018), a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift (Noctuary Press, 2017), and two chapbooks, including That Tree Is Mine (dancing girl press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, The New Republic, Boston Review, and elsewhere. Co-founder of Matter, a journal of poetry and political commentary, and Associate Editor for Tupelo Quarterly, she teaches at Marist College.

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