Do Not Eat by Kristia Vasiloff A dead dove nests in my empty refrigerator; I have lost all appetite to abusive apathy. Rage comforts and confronts me. Confusion unravels thigmotropism in me. The door sticks with cold and coos, of psalms and duas shot down from the sky. Each tertiary feather falls on plastic containers where little eggs used to hatch. Found now in cracked mosaics, supplicating in a fetal configuration on the floor before being stepped on, swept out. Insomnia is mean with the air of hollow bones. The world would stuff my refrigerator full if it could. A buffet of everything killed in mid-song. I didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t know it would be like this. The door handle bends into my hand until we unite. My clumsy mouth coos. Copyright 2023 by Kristia Vasiloff
Kristia Vasiloff is a disabled, queer poet living in North Carolina with her amazing Spouse. She writes on reality, mortality, and disability. She has appeared in Scars Press, B’K Press, has been supported by the North Carolina Poetry Society, and others. She believes in a world where all lives are equal, and fights against a world who opposes that. Free Palestine.
