Frost builds up in the freezer
where crinkly bags of peas and blocks
of butter live next to wrapped and dated
cuts of meat, dumpling wrappers. It's either
because of a faulty door seal, or a problem
of air circulation: too little, too moist,
too warm. There are times I am hot and
cold at the same time: icy with rage,
cheeks flushing warm from the snap
of indignation or curt dismissal.
As the afternoon grays with sleet,
water boils in the kettle. It's
the type that doesn't whistle, but
we're supposed to know the signs.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
