Kellam Ayres
punched the fridge, an old 1950s model, avocado green
and stocky—hadn’t worked for days—the freezer dribbling
its melted frost onto the floor, the chicken breasts
he’d pounded into cutlets rotting under two inches of water.
He’d broken the first two fingers, jammed his thumb,
cracked the knuckle above his wedding band,
and with no ice around he ran the tender mess
under the sink’s cool tap and wept;
the hand so badly swollen the doctor slipped a pair
of small metal snippers under the gold band and cut it off.
It was all coming apart—he made sure of that.
At home, his hand was wrapped tight, each finger
taped to the next for support—as if one broken thing
can be made whole by another.