My life is a series of days where I accumulate trash

Shevaun Brannigan


punctuated by mornings
it's taken from me. Open

the package from the aunt,
out tumble a half-dozen
black ceramic cats. Each

wrapped in newspaper,
each paper to the trash.
To the trash, the box

hollowed, uncollapsed.
Cat food tins yawp

meaty against disposable
plates discarded after

single use. Bags of spinach
wilt in my fridge. 

I ought to be eating

but at least I'm cleaning
the mold from the rim
of the bowls in my sink.

Throw away the sponge
& unwrap another one.

A drowned housefly caught
plump, rinse it

slick-winged down
the drain to I don't know
where, some place

I don't have to carry
on my back.