MUK-BANG You sign in to watch the K-Pop princess eat three steaks, a bucket of kimchi, ten carp pastries filled with custard and red bean paste. You sign in to see her hair, silky as bull semen, her skin, dewy as snail slime. She is size minus ten, but you sign in to see her eat garlic chicken with such gusto it lifts loneliness off your shoulders, loosens your anus. Your opener is broken, so you stab craters into a can of tuna, give up, opt for dill chips and chili dip. You sign in to see her giggle between spoonfuls of mayo, to see sauces accumulate on her teensy chin, to imagine wiping them off with a spit-damp napkin. You sign in because your husband is enjoying the Tuesday night special: beer after beer after soju after beer. Your last non-solo meal was you and your sister sharing a tub of plain yogurt as skim-milk watery as a half-hearted subway grope. The escape key is sluggish, blurred and sticky with horseradish mustard. You sign in, you sign in, you sign in, each screen shining with her charms, that guileless shoveling: bibimbap, fried okra, sweet potato tempura. Her eyes, all whites, rolled back and watching her own baby pink brain light up with pleasure. You sign in to enter the scene, turn off all the webcams, scrape the plates clean. To smell the pear detergent’s dim fragrance and to feel yellow gloves squelch against your fingertips. To stack rinsed dishes in the rack as neatly as the unlived lives are folded in your heart, each one with a sweet splurge at its core: banana kick, the perfect kiss, an appetite to clack chopsticks with. CRONE When I’m an old crone I’ll wear asymmetrical, gem-toned muumuus and thick cords adorned with ceramic speculum pendants. Dependant-free, just me and my harpy-self, burlap sack bursting with razor-lanced caramels and poisoned ring pops. I’ll learn ballet through spells, pas de chat my way to the local cafe where I’ll order a carafe of moonshine and a charcuterie plate. While stuffing my face with fat-spackled pate and pickled cobra eggs, I’ll riff with my scruffy waiter about mystics. Kabbalah, blah, blah… On lazy Sundays I’ll shoplift dildos, take blimps for joyrides, juice kale and the fabbest new steroids, splurging on extra for my Aqua Fit homies. By moonlight I’ll paint cubist portraits of prolific succubi, turpentine fumes doing the mess around with my brush strokes. Yup, in those magic hag years I’ll be so freaky blissed I’ll cease to exist. _____ Catriona Wright is a writer, editor, and teacher. Her short stories and poems have appeared in The New Quarterly, Joyland, Prairie Fire, PRISM International, Riddle Fence, Grain, and others. A selection of her poems won Matrix Magazine’s LitPop Award for 2014. She is an associate poetry editor for The Puritan, and you can find her at www.catrionawright.com.