Tag Archives: Kyrah Gomes

shopping for oil in the anthropocene

By Kyrah Gomes


i haven’t opened my eyes in days. 
a woman tells me talk to god, so

i send him a bedtime prayer 
when the sun is just past its peak.

never mind the sin. i am busy
making wine into water,

almosts into something golden.


apps fight for love and attention
in a frenzied flurry of notifications 
while i am standing in aisle seven,

trying to select a neutral cooking oil 
from corn and canola and peanut 
and safflower, weighing smoke points

against price per fluid ounce. what they 
don’t teach you in physics? viscosity 
is a pointless rebellion. no amount of

oleic acid or polyunsaturated fats can 
stop the inevitable evaporation into 
gold, the reduction to a mere flash

in the pan. what they don’t teach you 
is sometimes, the violence of the rapids
is a sweeter comfort than the aftermath

of broken glass. god,  you and i go way, 
way back. i keep finding gold shards in
the stream. tell me why i am blinded by it.

Kyrah Gomes (she/her) is a queer poet and fresh fruit aficionado from NYC, currently living in Tampa, fl. she writes to create something tangible and is as much of a poet as any other human being. Her poems have appeared in LEVITATE, The B’K, Paper Crane Journal, Superfroot, warning lines mag, and other publications. You can send her comments, hate mail, or playlists on Twitter or on Instagram.