Dry Goods

I am hunting for cumin to save a flat soup

and I find the evaporated milk instead.

The lid is a map of dust, a grey loop

of time spent waiting to be fed.

Behind it, the saltines in their wax paper skin

are folded so soft they feel like old clothes.

I’ve been stockpiling for a storm to begin,

or a famine that everyone else already knows.

We keep these things in the dark, on the shelf,

a literal weight of what-if and maybe.

I am trying to find a way to season myself

out of the blandness of being a safety.