By Irina Li
Like the first vibrant blossoms of spring
The odor is the first thing that leaps to greet you
Like an overzealous uncle
Who is confirmed to be on a list
And in the same way you gingerly sidestep copious amounts of intergenerational trauma
You will be forced to wedge yourself between the floral dresses of many old aunties and grandmas in an attempt to find an open stall
And like how the turkey ends up depressingly, horribly dry
You end up opening the stall door to see a three foot long porcelain-rimmed hole in the ground
Covered in piss, hair, and if Lady Luck actually just fucking hates you, fecal matter
The toilet flushes automatically as if to waggle its eyebrows hello
You bear the indignity and stench of squatting low over the bowl
As if making an unwilling sacrifice to some ancient sulfuric god below
That spews poo-infused droplets in a gurgling, discontented voice
A fly buzzes around you as you pull up your pants, keeps you company as you wash your hands
The terrible, scarring ordeal finally over, only to find there are no paper towels
Yeah, wipe
Comments