after Doja Cat

This is a number. This is a series of numbers and their respective compartments and the insurance that you will play them nicely. This is a manifestation of the things you wish you said to your father. They are the McDonald’s order of your father. They are everyone whose name ever was McDonald and they are the comparative space between the little see and the big em and the way little things can be bracketed by caps and transformed in meaning, from a surname to the backend of a cow. The way they say, you don’t need to worry about this or that shit            shot
for as long as you eat ass. Cow ass. But is it? This is not a meal, this is the stage upon which you declare yourself one with the mama slaughtered to make your plate. Mama was made of porcelain all blown up and perhaps only fucked up by making too much noise when she was finally blown into parts. How many parts. They’re all called patty. Or steak. They’re all called beef, which is not a meal, but the bone of contention between you and the person for whom you set the table.

Sarah Cavar is a PhD student, writer, and critically Mad transgender-about-town, and serves as Managing Editor at Stone of Madness Press. Author of two chapbooks, A HOLE WALKED IN (Sword & Kettle Press) and THE DREAM JOURNALS (giallo lit), they have also had work in Bitch Magazine, Electric Literature, The Offing, Luna Luna Magazine, Superstition Review, and elsewhere. Cavar navel-gazes at cavar.club and tweets @cavarsarah.