i hear the crush of beetles
plain as the future, and purpose as profane
as a bent coat hanger, but i still show up,
i still do the laundry, and i squeeze
the lemons over the drains
as the gnats dive and circle
regret. the pain of their offspring
steams from the hot gauze
of boiling water.
the brined aspect of the day
lays in the pickle jar
and waits to drown,
but still they call it survival.
how did my grandmother
have time for doilies,
how did each lattice
with its web-like longing
elevate itself above the frost bite
whispering from the freezer
as the crowded fear of cans
wait on a second depression. future. slim
as the herring bone leftover
from my grandfather's last fishing trip
as he arrives to the other side
in his pontoon boat, and why,
at the old lake house,
where even the flowers are arthritic,
is grandma still quilting
to get out of being alone
while her refrigerator hums
like an agitated time capsule
where if war goes on
all that is left of the future
is the last meal my grandmother made
turning pale with frostbite.