fridge

Is there a galaxy?

After the voice-over, the beaten hum of the Hot Point fridge, I bought used and painted

over the happy faces and phone numbers on the side facing the unpainted wall.

I used regular house pant, what else, to cover the beard

of old soup or 2008' sweet pickels; the Slitz and Gold Lable beer  keep as

a neutral spirit or to kickstart a poem.

Or the lush sermon played when the freezer is opened

or was left opened, or that gentle breeze,

beatitude of the frozen balls of old

chicken gizzards I refuse to discard,

in the morning when the leaves rustle

and the small twigs are in constant motion.

 

I must admit, I need a new one. This old one

pulsates when the motor stops reminding me of

the Florentine women or Angolan girls

pounding into powder, paste, pulp,

the perpetual need for a blizzard

or the bliss of antigen in blood.

 

And when the motor starts I am

happy, again, that the old machine still works,

still breeds,

still tempers my

emotions.

Reviews

[Emily B]

love it when the old machine hums . . . and when it actually keeps the icecream froze . . . that's a good day