Treehouse

Gina Vaynshteyn

And the neighbors have been stocking up on water bottles and canned sweet potatoes,
they have been hoarding the grocery store’s supply of chewable vitamins, original flavor Top Ramen, concentrated orange juice for the scurvy, and paperback Sudoku for the brain.
The grandparents have been crying tears of unabashed ecstasy and relief;
they want to be there already.

Google assures us it’s pure miscalculation,
but I know better. Everyone is going a little bit crazy, even the level-headed
12th grade calculus teacher, who keeps writing the sign infinity on the white board,
going over the loops again and again in blue marker.

I walk into town like a delinquent cowgirl,
and I promise myself to really take it over like a true conquistador:
no mercy, possible bloodshed.

Every bar is offering drinks half-off and doomsday specials;
I am already drunk off my own self-power, it radiates like purple test-tubes,
like the x-rays of Hernan Cortez or Queen Elizabeth I.
I have already won over the night, now it’s time to show this city,
weak from fear and abandonment that all I wanted was everything,
like all adventurous women do.

For two months, everything is mine.
The trees uproot themselves for me, and begin to formulate tree-branch paintings.
The hunky, heartless wrestlers on T.V. weep, just to prove me wrong.
The Bachelor from season three elopes with his chunky high-school lover,
and the constellations admit there was an error five hundred years back;
with this star-dust knowledge, we are all brand new people.

The very last day on earth is beautiful.
The farmer’s market announces everything must go; everyone takes glorious
bites of black cherries and papayas all day long. There is no stopping us.
The beach is extra cold and salty, some dip their hands and feet
into the water to feel the tingle on their skin; everyone will especially miss this
feeling.
I have made sure there is no stupidity, no last-minute Nordstrom robberies
or jealousy-fueled stabbings.
If you ruin this for me, I promise you’ll pay for it
Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the sun set in a darker orange.

Gina Vaynshteyn studies and writes poetry in San Diego. So far, her work has been featured in Bop Dead City, The California Journal of Women Writers, and is forthcoming in Milk Sugar. You can read her book reviews on The Rumpus and light-hearted words of advice on HelloGiggles. Gina frequently updates her twitter @ginainterrupted, especially if she thinks she’s being funny.

See Gina’s list of 5 Things You Should Read in our ongoing contributors’ series.

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