Not Sponsored or How to not have cancer while partaking in the bell

Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett

Ethereal was the only way to describe what sat in the pit of my stomach. The hydrocodone made me sleepy and hungry and all I had ever asked for was a Crunchwrap Supreme. The same, with extra sour cream and extra nacho cheese and extra lettuce, I had when I performed a monthly breast exam to find a lump about the size of two Fiesta Potatoes. There were tears and doctors appointments and bills and late nights waiting and draining and 2 am runs for the Cheesy Gordita Crunch Box. There were deep deep dreams after a box or a crunch, where everything seemed to level out. I cleaned and bandaged, took my first bath, and drove myself to Taco Bell for the very first time.


Written by Allison Lee Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Lee Riechman-Bennett

Caress caress caress caress caress caress
Can you rest?
That red hue that reaches in past your stained curtain, can it queue something other than
caress caress caress caress caress
Where is the rest
of the people that broke that sidewalk outside?
Straight in half, like a ritz giving nightlife a place to hide.
Muslin isn’t the blanket my mother gifted you when you said you had none, but this one is. It seems to
caress caress caress caress
More than we seemed to.
Naranjas trail down and wedge themselves inside young mouths. Muslin isn’t the fabric you wore, but the pattern it bares, parodies bodies it had worn before. The tension between my feet tucked, and yours began to tear at it, wipe away the
caress caress caress.