home

plastic wrapped,

precut vegetables: onions,

peppers, and mushrooms on

your shelves. opened, unsealed

chorizo and green beans shriveled —

from weeks ago. ballooned containers of

warm vodka-doused tortellini.

my shelves line with

glass tupperware packing

precooked rice.

olives soaking in oil and hot

sauce laced with vinegar.

oat milk, orange juice, and raspberry

jam. the loaf of seeded bread.

maple syrup crystalized shut and leftovers in

the iced temperatures.

i remember rehydrating

cow’s blood with a cheesecloth until

i could swipe it away from

your fridge. i washed my hands

four times after.

yours tosses past expiration dates;

mine prepares a shelf life

i pull strands out of me

and wonder: my hair or

your hair? but never have i asked:

your fridge or

my fridge?