Mom. My god.

overheard on the M train 

I’m not your baby girl anymore. 

I got a job as a florist in Hell’s 

Kitchen, my own room in Queens. 

Yeah, across the river. It’s fine. 

So are pomegranate seeds. Should I 

tell her what they actually are? 

I know you still believe that stuff 

about winter, but—no, no one 

is calling you that. Well, if we did, 

it’s because you burned a child. 

You were making him immortal? 

Just listen to yourself, Mom: 

he died. Mom, for the love of

Zeus! My name is Percy now.

David Elliot Eisenstat has contributed poems to THINK, The Pierian, and Rust & Moth, among others. The Managing Poetry Editor for Variant Lit, he lives in Brooklyn. Find more of his work at https://www.davideisenstat.com/poetry/.