Mrs. David Padowak
Heather Jones
March 30, 2026
I land in Boston early, hit the interstate in my rental car while it’s still dark. I
Canopy Literary Review
My body laid against the pillows
damned,
yearning to get out of these years of motion interpolation
yet nothing is moving.
I see the roof colored a pastel beige
memorizing cracks upon cracks
the crevices in my body swindling the air that hadn’t
existed in my bedroom beforehand.
The bags I hid in that thrifted cubby
years of suppression not ready to confront—only my eyes
saw the bright colors and volume of food
poison arrow shot from my
heart every time
guilt stepped into my eyes and
saw my frame.
Heart sank, yet stomach rang
needed to
fill up the repulsion all over again
to feel satisfied and barely happy.
Here I am, defined by state of mind
wilted like the roses by gravestones I’d seen—families, friends hadn’t visited for years—
chugging, chugging, chugging on honeyed carbonation,
aromantic in decision-making.
Things Rotting on the Sides of Highways
McDonald’s Double Cheeseburger 450 Calories
Red Bull Sea Blue 160 Calories
Pepsi 250 Calories
Takis Fuego 560 Calories
Lay’s Salt & Vinegar 450 Calories
Starbucks Caramel Macchiato 250 Calories
Water Bottles 0 Calories
Little Debbie Zebra Cake Roll’s 320 Calories
Maruchan Chicken Flavored Ramen. 380 Calories
Mountain Dew Code Red 280 Calories
Who’s at the door?
Ripe
Scrawny.
Muscular.
Slender.
Pinched.
My wishes are defined in this multitude of ways.
Never learned how to balance many things happening at once
my weight just one issue of many during my teenage years.
Living paycheck to paycheck—the American dream—like society and corporate food-service steamy fast-food restaurants
coworkers I’d lost—hiring and firing—
for convenience.
One was found slumped over in the bathroom
another I took home where her brother lives just a few blocks from me
I haven’t seen her since.
I remember the time I snuck $32 worth of food home and ate it all in one sitting.
Got so caught up with my co-working kindreds—correspondence in a beehive—connected through the contents of our wallets—commensurate with our abilities—stuck like pieces played in a game of Tetris, never to move again.
physically
mentally
emotionally—
exhausted me
made me full
energized, at times.
Food can help, and can kill you in the long run—hypocritical juxtaposition—
perhaps
I’ll never get over it.
Food as art grows a better person—fed up with the drainage
the bad kinds, at least.
Artistic Development In all us fucked up people
Vincent van Gogh – The Potato Eaters
Andy Warhol – Campbell’s Soup Cans
Francis Bacon – Figure with Meat
Giuseppe Arcimboldo – Vertumnus
Pieter Bruegel the Elder – The Peasant Wedding
The bond between my bed and I grew my legs huge
my steps resounded in the doorway.
Forget trying to sneak out.
Wouldn’t be worth a damn.
It’s like the bond I could’ve had with a Golden Retriever or a Husky—a healthy bond that would’ve had me up and feeling loved
freed from confinement, shackles chewed through by canine incisors.
But.
No.
That never happened.
Conformed to comfort, I decided everything in my life
had been done and over with at this point
my bed my fetter and drug.
I hit the curb
hard
like a tooth chipped off from impact
circumscription of forgetting how to move
how to feel how to cope
have
friends
have anything something
anything?
Tremendous
Staggering
Voluminous
frozen
in a lake
chalked up, nothing of significance
I don’t know how to feel about it
tossed away into the nethermost,
that planet earth had never seen.
Wrappers and plastic cups
riddling the earth of environmental damage—
they were my friends instead—
I saw them everyday.
Coping Mechanisms Through Song Titles: Stinging Resonance in Heart-Sinking Awareness
Lullaby For Liquid Pig
Hearts Are Open Graves
Feel So Numb
A Box Full of Sharp Objects
<maybe> it’s my fault
Eat You Alive
I Hate Everything About You
you should see me in a crown
Human Leech
Nobody Asked Me (If I Was Okay)
Hurt
And Contentment
Arrested in shame and accountability
once I stepped out of the environment
the city that’d entrapped me for so long.
The smell in that room enraptured my soul
lead it towards a bewitching spell
of laughter
happiness
freedom—
could’ve all.
Craft of recognition drank in bottles of sugar—
sodas and lemonades made me allergic to water—
as it did to the word fat
when the racks of clothes shunned 3XL in a different light.
I called myself manic, versed in recommending
where to eat—quantity and cheapness was the thing,
not quality.
Over the years my bedsheets
had worn to the shape of my slumber,
pillow cases frayed,
holes in my clothes
from how often I wore them.
I am over,
the habits
were killed
as soon as awareness awoke.
ANTHONY BROWN is an English student at the University of Cincinnati. His goal as a writer is to encourage others to never be afraid and to showcase their ugliness, truths, and personality through their writing. He is a poet, drag queen, music enthusiast, writer, and human. Anthony has interned for Abode Press and The Cincinnati Review. His work has been published in Prism Undergraduate Journal, Short Vine Literary Journal, The Persimmon Review, and elsewhere. Find him at anthonycbrown.com and Instagram @antwritesalot.
I land in Boston early, hit the interstate in my rental car while it’s still dark. I
Odile stood in the darkest part of the yard, waiting, waiting, and Boy was nowhere in sight.
Welcome to Canopy Literary Review. This journal came about after a yearlong search for publications of its
1 / We already know how bad language can be—poor grammar and creative punctuation; potty-mouths and shitposters;
This story was originally published in Stonecoast Review, June 2023. She was short and thick, with dry,
VANTAGE is an explorer, photographer, artist and writer. Instagram – @_vantage1_ Link Instagram