portion of the artwork for JR Walsh's poetry

This is the last family dinner
JR Walsh

“It’s onomatopoeic like booger.”
            Mother says it and we all agree.
                          Amen, sister!

Pick your friend’s nose and hear
            the crash. Jupiter is a glockenspiel.
                          Pluto, a mallet.

Smile until we are chorizo.
            Uncle Doctor changes strippers
                          for the flavor.

“Dentistry is an aphrodisiac.”
            “Say wah?” “The chair gets us
                          drilling sweet.”

Cavities pearl into fillings:
            prophylactic pornography for
                          the toothsome.

There are twelve of us
            apologetic and looking for dip
                          or mud pies.

Shh! is shushed and someone
            lights a lighter then explodes
                          behind a bush.

Whump! The lights go out
            outside. We’re running out of
                          smoky booze.

“Her” nicotine feathers are tarred.
            Charade a pterodactyl, or cough.
                          Alert the sofa.

“Her” has no name here.
            Marks carve under the counter
                          in stuck gum.

“One day, we’ll trade halter tops
            with the geniuses and the cops
                          will stop us.”

Every argument must be formed
            with an accent and uniformed.
                          Or falsetto.

Let’s do declare allegiance to
            silent eunuchs and seedy cukes
                          of the iceberg.

There’s always a dog locked up.
            Sequel barks until seized by
                          Prequel, the cat.

“Main courses are for turkeys.”
            The prissiest among us knows

The floor is bloated and crummy.
            A door-to-door vacuum is kaput,
                          not penniless.

The value of the galaxy is
            assessed by bangs and crew cuts
                          in orbit.

Grandmother’s thorough ass
            objects to glorious hairstyles.
                          Sit on, honey!

Father’s dragging his clubfoot
            on dessert. Who will diagnose
                          the beebread?

The neighbors buzz our knees
            in thanksgiving and leave early.
                          Childless, they fuck.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 56 | Fall/Winter 2020