fear of it being too late 

in the kitchen we trip on our own reflections.
on the wall, there is an old iron bean grinder
full of teal aquarium rocks. in each rock, 
a little version of the scene. this is the night 
the fridge stops working & i see my father furious-cry
as he grabs a pack of grapes & a baggie of lunch meat,
tearing the fridge's guts apart & saying,
"i can fix this." for weeks it had flickered 
& he had smacked its side. "piece of shit," he said.  
i had too many fingers & all i wanted to do was help.
a little girl. the holes hunger made in that house.
all our faces in the rocks. tiny desperate ghosts. 

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