This Is My Poem About Staving Off Eventual Death.
Here is the window I crack even when it’s cold outside,
because I have too many windows and a corner apartment
and it gets too hot in here. Here are the blinds I close
and open like winking at the sun as it rolls across the sky.
Here is the bread I made. Here is the rice. The meat.
The fruit. The milk. The honey. My favorite spoon.
The knife with the tip missing. An open bottle of wine,
emptying. The casual clutter of living. All the things in my home
cocooned around me, moving with me across rooms, left
on tables carelessly. Nothing would let me die
while the kitchen counter hasn’t been wiped. With dirty
dishes in the sink. I just went shopping. There are
so many dinners left to make. Here is the door
I lock and the chain I pull at night. Here are all the lights.
Here is my finger on each switch. Here is the dark.
The bed I sleep in. The street lamp just outside my window.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 46 | Fall 2015