by Marina Greenfeld

Dollar General: N. Lamar

Dear Dollar General, mostly you can’t

provide for me. We both know. The shape

of my need has changed, a well I dig deeper

and wider every day. And you, unshifting titan

of my beloved landscape, can only multiply.

I return to believe the past can still care for me

now that I am beginning to want care.

But you cannot feed my love. You don’t have

any lentils! You dilute your cranberries

with sugar water and the disguised juice

of less precious fruits. I know you don’t mean

to deceive. We can only offer what we have.

But the bread you carry is too soft. I keep mine

in the fridge now, full of seeds like cold stones.

Dollar General: Old Taylor

It rained on my last day 

working at the city pool. 

I sat on the ledge 

of the concessions window 

with Frances and peeled apart 

the damp sandwich cookies 

I bought that morning 

at the Dollar General outside 

the apartment complex 

I was only briefly living in.

They had a wet cardboard 

chew to them even sealed 

in thin sweating plastic. 

We had to let people swim 

if it was just raining. 

But every time it thundered, 

we restarted a half hour timer 

to keep them out of the water, 

and us from our stations. 

How thunderous the school 

busses seemed! The heavy steps 

of the Boys & Girls Club 

of North Mississippi descending 

across the sloped parking lot.

The scraping of a deck chair 

across uneven concrete. The diving 

board’s tongue depressed 

too deeply, stuttering back 

to its status quo. All signs 

of an impending storm.

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