Chloe Cook

Disney Adult

Suburban moms squeezing Gaston’s biceps

crowd the meet-and-greet. Their PG-rated

cosplays: subtle signs of psycho-instability.

(Orgasms are counterfeited during missionary.)

Owalas stickered with Beast and Belle

outnumber the light-up crocs. It’s septic

shock in the pastel. Husbands emasculated

by mouse-ears feign early-onset infertility

and sharpen their incompetence—barely

free of wedlock’s chrysalis, or Epcot’s upsell,

they misinterpret delusion as fantasy.

Toddlers suffer incontinence sown

by a collab of rangoons and beignets.

Olaf-themed diapers—how baroque—

compliment the Pooh-bear burp-rags,

the Piglet-binkies. How goes the sea chanty?

“Pigs have turned back into men?” No,

that’s Auden. Yo-ho-ing the walkways,

a tribe of bridesmaids dons Millennial jokes

(“Hakuna Moscato”) and bedazzled sling-bags

that wink under LEDs. In Orlando’s fabliau:

corn dogs teasing innuendos, scrunchies lost

to Expedition Everest, marital electricity

snuffed out like stage-one Syphilis

after a tête-à-tête with the pharmacist.

Wives gossip in a staccato tempo,

holding compact mirrors up close, glossing

their lips the red of new-age domesticity.

The men could hang with Antipholus—

“I’ll entertain the offered fallacy.”

Continental Breakfast

They lie on their bed of ice—yogurt cups

flavored peach or strawberry banana.

Batter drips from the waffle iron’s handle.

Napkins soak in a puddle of syrup.

From my table, I watch the early risers

fill their mugs with coffee or orange juice,

tong a dry muffin or cheese danish, scoop

jelly onto toast, either white or rye.

At each spread, the patrons stick to routine:

eggs daily, or bagels never. Until

the yogurt. Always, it’s the yogurt that stalls

decisive hands and sets minds stuttering.

Straw-nana is indicative of common sense.

Peach suggests spontaneity.

I diagnose one’s personality

from their choice. It’s no faulty omniscience

to say jean-jacket girl and I won’t get along—

she chose straw-nana. She chose wrong.