I have a few issues with the 3.53 ounce jar of piggy collagen. First, I was so relieved to discover that the gel is not green, but in fact a similar color to my skin tone: a taupe, jiggly moist jello-like “shape memory texture” [the gel, not my skin]. Also, am equally relieved no animals were harmed in your products research or production.
However, since using your product I have not seen a great reduction in wrinkles. My daughter once commented on the chasms of my crow’s feet. This was probably a jab at my motherhood, leftover-divorce resentment, according to my therapist. She’d elbow me with, Maybe wear longer shorts or Isn’t that a bit too bright for you? [my outfit, not crow’s feet]. They say the skin is 40% thinner than the rest of our face. My then-partner [bless him] said, Because she smiles and laughs a lot in her life. My therapist stopped taking notes, looked up at me. I flashed him some of my crows.
Once, my daughter said, You didn’t really read to us. Just stuffed us in our rooms with books. Here. Read. It was such a long field ago, where the tall grasses salmon on trade winds. Where you want to feather your hand over its tops, like Russel Crowe did in some movie. To jump in its straightness, turn around, see some residue that you’ve walked there [the field, not life, nor raising one’s kids right]. My therapist stopped taking notes, flash, crows. Sometimes I wonder about the damages—to skin and other organs. Green pigs or crows’ feet, maybe one day I’ll miss them. Maybe one day I’ll regret letting them fly.
Shareen K. Murayama is a Japanese American, Okinawan American poet and educator. She’s a 2021 Best Microfiction winner as well as a poetry reader for The Adroit Journal. She spends her days as a surfing poet, and her evenings with her dog named Squid. Her art is published or forthcoming in Pilgrimage Press, The Margins, MORIA, Juked, Bamboo Ridge, Puerto del Sol, and elsewhere. You can find her on IG & Twitter @ambusypoeming