Target
3 Target Dear Arrowhead water, dear feather boa, dear father and mother with the toddler and cart full of candles: I wanted to tell you the sky swished open its doors this morning, the whole shebang slid by on felt, and I entered the mythic fires of stoicism, bore my nakedness in the manner of Shackleton, defiantly ignorant. For I know that Target, centerless like new pedagogies, loves the good good, loves punishment somehow instructing a niche audience. That’s me. I love to finger the Milano-style whatnot, bend the necks of five-headed floor lamps. Yes, I love you dearly, dear church of the cherished storage bin, dear Cheerios and the bowl to drown you in, dear warehouse sky, dear reindeer aiming the beads of your eyes at my impulse buys. Once, I shot a gun in the desert, laid it down in the sand, and said a small prayer to prayers of small sizes. Years later, we navigated the marked-downs, the Doritos safe in Mylar pillows, thought we’d stripped ourselves clean of desire’s burrs and foxtails, even as popcorn 4 promised low-sodium transubstantiation. But we were registering, the word itself green, bearded, so aimed our fantastic machines at the crock pot and bath rug, at the iPod snug in its skin. We dressed ourselves in the warmth of that small space heater, fed the nuisance of class consciousness little biscuits. How cloudless, how terrible and lucid the distances we traveled for our dear wedding guests— dear, which my Italian friend uses in that foreign way, as in, That pair of pants is too dear. And how dear, how sheer the night, we thought, dearly beloved, outside the Target, the headlights of all those cars trained on us. ...
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