Small Refusals

I made the toast this morning.

Butter melting, gold and warm—

the way you're supposed to do it,

the proper, perfect form.

I couldn't eat it.

Just sat with it on a plate,

watched the bread go hard and stale,

watched it seal its fate.

My mother would find a lesson here—

something about how we fail,

about refusing what we need,

about the stories we tell.

But it's just bread now, hard,

just crumbs I can't throw away.

I made it. I refused it.

There's nothing more to say.

The kitchen smells like burnt butter.

My mouth tastes like air.

There's a plate with cold toast on it

and I can't afford to care.