Shevaun Brannigan
punctuated by mornings
it's taken from me. Open
the package from the aunt,
out tumble a half-dozen
black ceramic cats. Each
wrapped in newspaper,
each paper to the trash.
To the trash, the box
hollowed, uncollapsed.
Cat food tins yawp
meaty against disposable
plates discarded after
single use. Bags of spinach
wilt in my fridge.
I ought to be eating
but at least I'm cleaning
the mold from the rim
of the bowls in my sink.
Throw away the sponge
& unwrap another one.
A drowned housefly caught
plump, rinse it
slick-winged down
the drain to I don't know
where, some place
I don't have to carry
on my back.