Anna Abraham Gasaway
The Kenmore Refrigerator
The light’s gone out but it still keeps things cold
and freezes—Sears has gone out of business,
so ten-year warranty’s no good. No repair
person will come and visit this relic;
it was the cheapest version—had no frills, no
ice maker; we figured that’s the first thing
that would break—but no, it was the side
shelves; they have a weak middle—we duct taped
them round and round. It’s filthy with ghosts
of salad-dressings past, celery and greens
left languishing, tuna from the Land of the Lost,
weird smelling rot at the back. These three things
that remain, our ripe avocados, my son’s wax-encircled
baby bells; my husband’s apples, pristine in their drawer.
Anna Abraham Gasaway (She/Her) is a stroke-surviving, disabled writer that has been published in One Art, The Los Angeles Review, Literary Mama, Corporeal, The San Diego Poetry Annual and others. She reads for Poetry International at San Diego State University, where she received her MFA with an emphasis on Poetry. She can be found on Twitter @Yawp97 and Instagram @annagasaway.