By CL Bledsoe
There’s a chicken roasting in the oven
with potatoes the way you like them,
asparagus on the clean stove. Candles, blues,
and beer. This is my offering to tempt
you home; please understand: voices rise
outside the window — everyone thinks
it’s Tuesday — and nothing helps
except your smell in your closet
while you’re at work. That’s where my desk
went. I’m sorry I told you it was stolen.
I was overtired from keeping the drafts out.
All day, murderers come to the door trying
to sell cookies, but I’m on a diet. When
the electricity shoots from your eyes, the blood
flower exploding to engulf the ceiling, take
my hand. I have a place we can hide.