by Megan Hodges
Bring milk,
powdered now,
rationed through a glitching app
that thanks you for your patriotism.
Eggs,
if you can find them,
each stamped with a barcode and a warning:
“May induce memory.”
Two loaves of bread,
one for now,
one to trade for a minute of Wi-Fi
so we can watch
the President cry into a teleprompter,
insisting, yet again,
that it’s still not his fault.
Water,
not bottled,
the kind that listens when you speak to it,
still ripples with empathy.
Canned peaches,
because we need sweetness,
someone must remember what it felt like
to be kissed without condition.
Batteries,
to keep the radio alive
for the static voice that call us “citizens”
like it still means something.
A single match.
To light a candle.
To light a protest.
To light a face in the dark
and whisper
“I see you.”
And lemons.
For their sting.
For the way they remind us
we are still here
and still human.