Bri Gearhart Staton
Big Helper
Mary Goldfins, I called her. Mom said I smiled nice at family
pictures, so I picked her from the tank as my treat, swimming fat
with gold flecks like skipped stones across
her fantail. I fed her like Mr. Rogers did,
the beads of food sifting like sand through the slotted top.
Did you know I still overfeed the ones I love? Once,
Grandma came to clean Mary’s bowl. I wasn’t strong enough
yet to turn the kitchen tap. She called me Big Helper when I climbed
on the kitchen chair, rolled up my sleeves, Mary moved to safety
in a Cool Whip container on the corner of the sink. Grandma scrubbed
the bowl, let the water run hard. Just then, I thrust Mary
under the stream, cupped in my hands like an offering,
flooding her gills, her body riddled in the current
of my love. Grandma gasped and slapped
my hands down, spilling Mary to the rim of the disposal,
limp as a curl of carrot skin. I didn’t see the steam,
the scalding heat, didn’t feel it on my hands
just the sting of Grandma’s rings on my palms
and there, in the sink, the accidental casualty
of my boiling need. You just can’t help
yourself, she repeated. When I was fifteen, the priest
made the girls write letters to our future
husbands. I looked at the blank page and prayed, Oh God, please
don’t let him think I’m too much.
Still Pretending
After occupational therapy, I go to the grocery store
and spend way too much money on pre-cut pineapple.
The shelves bewilder me, and the floor sways
like a child’s playground bridge. Oftentimes,
in my overwhelm, I find a life preserver
somewhere in my central vision, usually something
big or bright and about nose-height. Today, I find
the pineapple, and I heave the container to the bottom
of my cart. $4.99 a pound. The weight of a hefty
newborn. My husband is going to say
something. I visit the bakery, the case with fancy
cheeses, the castle of energy drinks. The fluorescent
lights shriek in the freezer doors. Just an hour ago,
at the clinic, I forced my eyes to shift: near,
far, near, far. The clinic notes say “impaired
binocular function,” and I imagine myself
with telescopic eyes, focusing only when
I rub them at the rim. I bet this bionic me could
spot the taco seasoning from aisles away. I bet
bionic me would be incapable of crying.
When the cashier asks for payment, I’m still
pretending. The pineapple gets its very own
bag. I let it ride in the front seat. When
my husband asks about it, on its own shelf
in the fridge, I’m going to say
it just happened to catch my eye.
Bri Gearhart Staton (she/her) is a South Dakota poet whose writing explores experiences that exist in the periphery. Bri’s poetry has been published by Button Poetry, Gather, FLARE Magazine, and more. A mother of two, her objectively hilarious children are the joys of her heart. Connect with her on Instagram @bristaton.writes
