2 April 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 1
Pull one off the track and you'll see: getting it back into the fridge is like pushing a wheelchair uphill in a stiff wind. We had eleven refrigerators in eleven houses in eleven cities. Now we have only their crispers, shaming us with bits of our old rind. In the basement they hold air in neat quarts. They say to no one, LETTUCE. LETTUCE. LETTUCE. In the sudden light of a bare bulb, their many unidentical whites: of stultify, of digestion, of slipper, of blind shoot off a potato. Their rigid, purposeless sides—it is as if I have stripped a blanket off paralytic legs! For God's sake, go upstairs, open a beer, forget them.
About the author:
Joy Katz's two poetry collections are Fabulae and The Garden Room. Recent work appears or will soon in APR, Seneca Review, and Washington Square. She teaches poetry writing at NYU.