MAN I LOVE RANCH!

rhegan stallworth

One of the first things I ate was a fistful of ranch.
I got to it as a young little ranch girl–a cup of dressing
sitting out on the counter. It was white
and green and pink and sparkly, and I set
out to slurp it up like it was in my sippy cup, stick
my hand in my mouth and taste the layer gathering of oil.

I think at the core, all I boil
down to is a big ol’ tubba ranch.
I slosh around and stick
to the ever enclosing sides of my pink dress.
I stay tart when I am alone, and I set
my ranch self on fire, but I am not flammable. Or white.

Or sticky or sloshy or alone. Or white.
My little ranch self and my thick layer of oil
on top. Not sure if I belong in a setting
of tumbleweeds and earthquakes and little ranch
houses. I have been dressed
with raw onions and pink Claire’s receipts and slapstick

cartoons. I ranch up my fingers and my potstickers
and my arteries and my capillaries and my too-white
dumplings. I pink myself up in a ranch headdress
decorated with ranched up matches, breaking me down like oil
by acetone. I used to ask for vats of ranch
as a young girl; pray to set

them on fire. Pray to chew on her set
of white Mary Janes. I used to pray I could stick
myself in a vat of ranch
as a young ranch girl until my pink dress was white.
I would bury myself in the cold white soil
Until I was solidified in my cold white dress.

That girl with the pink bow and the blue dress,
she was a chronic ketchup eater. She would set
herself on fire, and not put it out until she soiled
her soft red dress. I’ve never been holistic
in my ways of pinkening myself. Of whitening
myself. I tend to ranch

myself until I can’t set myself on anything but ranch.
I oil my soft pink dress
until it’s heavy and sticky and white.

Rhegan Stallworth is a boarding student at Interlochen Arts Academy. She writes poetry and fiction, and also tries her hand at screenwriting from time to time. In her free time, she enjoys drinking chai lattes, manifesting, and talking about her two dogs, Tussie and Mushu.