I am eating my way through hell
Sweet avocado, did you know
that soon the world will no longer
have room for you and poof
you will be gone? It feels as if
the sky will go on beyond and beyond
until there is nothing left but holy parents,
a gift we see but don’t until. Sweet avocado,
I am fretting and high and wondering
about sobriety, and the pearly gates on fire,
about how Oprah Winfrey invested in trees
with fruits so she would never go without.
Dear Queer God, if you hear me, send us
a sign, a squishy swish with no pit,
a King oval, a Hail Mary.