by Shoshauna Shy
There’s a calendar on my counter.
Now all the boxes are blank.
A single cup and saucer sit
where the toaster used to be.
I didn’t get to keep the table either.
A stash of unopened mail fills the space
where the cookbooks once sat.
The cookbooks that went unopened.
Become a wife. It’ll make up for the years
being passed from family to family.
So the shrink said.
I was told about appliances.
They were supposed to make a kitchen
more complete.
All I know is to unplug them
before giving them away.
I was told about having children.
They were supposed to make a marriage
more complete.
What I know is mine are better off
with their father.
They were already unplugged
before I gave them away.
Still, they show up at my door
every other Wednesday.
When my lover is in my kitchen
he misses his wife.
When my children are in my kitchen
I miss my lover.
My children eat their bread cold.
They miss the toaster.