I must remember to turn on the oven
in half an hour, while the bread
is finishing rising, to heat up
the pot that holds the dough.
This poem serves as a reminder.
Instead of jotting on Post-It notes
stuck to the regfrigerator,
I'll post poems to a blog.
The string around my finger.
In the breakfast nook where I type
the penciled bird on the wall is still dead
and there is a German print of pigs:
Marschschwein and Tamworthschwein.
Out the window the neighbor's dog
is pointing at nothing, now barking.
UPDATE: Emily has turned on the oven.
The Rumpus Review of It Comes at Night
1 hour ago