Before Bed
Annika Le

I filed the fridge this evening–

sauce shelf now tallest to short,

a library of labels.

 

In a Ziplock, half a lemon shrugs,

smiling to show its seeds,

and in the bottom corner,

silver cans crawl in shadows.

 

I assemble a monument,

turn tubs into towers:

Hummus then pesto

with salsa as the steeple.

 

‍I imagine it’s a dollhouse­–

the onions spill secrets

in basement drawers,

minced garlic guards

the entryway.

 

‍I’ve put it into place now,

evicted the expired.

Purring as I shut the door,

it burbles a brief prayer

into pitch darkness.

Fragments Copyright © 2021, English Department, Seattle University.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram