after Brad Aaron Modlin
Suzy’s Tamagotchi died—
for real this time.
Her mom got tired of all of the beeping,
waterboarded it in the washing machine.
We buried it in the wood chips
under the slide at recess,
nobody was brave enough
to flush it.
We watched the Bill Nye episode about erosion,
shouted “Bill! Bill! Bill!” in the theme song
like we were Usher giving enthusiastic consent,
learned that nothing lasts forever—
not even the last days of school before summer vacation.
Not even rocks.
We passed notes all through math,
already knew the statistics for each outcome
of our cootie catchers,
the best numbers
for MASH so you didn’t end
up marrying your brother
and having 39 kids.
Lunch was the usual
stock market floor.
Cosmic brownies backed every dollar.
Cardboard pizza went uneaten,
what was eaten went undigested,
and your absence was ultimately unnoted.
Kristin Gustafson typically thinks she is funnier than she really is. She is one of Literary Cleveland’s 2023-2024 Breakthrough Writing Residents and is working on her first full-length poetry collection about mental illness and pop culture. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in HAD, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, BULLSHIT LIT, Gone Lawn, and elsewhere.
