ALT “Royal Pardon” by JESSICA Q. STARK Let me be untranslated matter in this age of self-declared kings and salesmen— this court our royal stage. How quiet the white-hot nimble name, each upload an upset to mortality‘s unimpressed bibliography. It feels like dead sound the way you sculpt a lifetime through good timing, through nobody’s hot breath. Here lies Antoinette and a facsimile report on the dearth of formula water milk toilet paper bread all gone during a juicy-sesh of self-care slash thoughts and prayers. Headless, we got carried away. We had a lot to do. While immigrants walked for miles and immigrants bled hurricanes into boats and immigrants without power turned into reams of discount paper at Target‘s Big Blowout Labor Day Sale. Remember worst nightmares as uncollected social security? Me neither. I’m trying to save up enough vacation time to sleep forever, but a knife’s at my back most days, at the edge of mother’s maiden name. And

ALT five nights out of seven, my neighbor’s outside breaking down Amazon boxes while the cat pleads the fifth, sleeps ‘til noon. Surely, you know, sire, I jest. I’m just a simpleton, a citizen, a sure-bet sidepiece. All I want is your decent-blooded love.