As­bestos at Best

The Iowa Review - - MELISSA BARRETT -

That Fe­bru­ary when the cat was tim­o­rously tu­mor­ous and the sky was Tylenol-white. Go write

it in your trav­el­ogue, the voice on TV says. I’m watch­ing The Truman Show. My def­i­ni­tion of ex­cess?

Christof’s weather ma­nip­u­la­tor sta­tioned on the moon. Also, dog treats in the shape of tiny tooth­brushes.

Mil­len­ni­als are the worst. They’re on a mis­sion to make the hy­phen ob­so­lete. They care a lot about trig­ger warn­ings

and Tar­get. I want to give you a vaccine, which is an­other way of say­ing I want to give you autism. We have a real short­age

of peo­ple who ac­knowl­edge that each day we have a brand-new sky. How many me­chan­ics does it take

to fix a busted-up Tau­rus? Zero. All Tau­ruses are bro­ken be­yond re­pair; it’s the worst as­tro­log­i­cal sign.

Mil­len­ni­als are self-cen­tered, but they don’t put the hy­phen in. Hitler was a Tau­rus. He drove a Volk­swa­gen.

If I were floored, I’d want to be car­peted. If I were the ground, I’d want to be a crater on Christof’s moon, Tylenol-white.

If I were Canada, I’d mine and ex­port as­bestos for 130 years, too. If I were a cat, I’d breathe it all in.

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