Dry Goods

I’m digging through cans of a bargain-brand bean,

while the fridge makes a sound that is hungry and mean.

I reach for the back where the darkness is thick,

and my fingers get caught in a sugar-glue trick.

A bottle of glaze has been leaking its ink,

leaving rings on the paper that smell like a sink.

There’s a jar of tomatoes in oil and in salt,

expired in August, and all of it’s my fault.

I thought I would cook like a person who’s whole,

with a recipe book and a hand-painted bowl.

But the flour is stiff and the spices are dead,

and I’m eating a piece of some grocery-store bread.