I can’t swallow.  It happens all the time, sometimes worse than others.  Last week it happened over dinner with my folks, at the hipster restaurant my brother works at.  Lasted about an hour, a wad of lamb and sweet potato stuck in my gullet, right above my stomach.  Nothing up, nothing down.  Just stuck.  Terrible timing.  Mom’s obsesessed with pain, mostly her own, and I freaked her out, gagging mucus into my water glass before leaving the table to spend dessert in an alley across the street, chugging Drano.           
            They say great eaters make an art of chewing.  I can't stand either, but I’m trying.  It’s noble to be great at something you hate.  My something’s food service, my family’s fucking up meals. We break more than bread. 
            Used to be I popped six to eight Zantac a day and ate like a horse.  Now it’s autumn and I’m not working.  I’ve lost fifteen pounds I couldn’t afford to lose.  Everyday I puke pages of shit I can’t swallow, then offer them up like a bird to its chicks.  I quit my job for this.  Hope you like the taste.             




Dysphagia first appeared in By the Overpass #1, p. 20, Spring 2011
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