inside, the old fridge grunts like electric frogs fucking. outside, the moon hangs in the balance. the tide pauses, which way to turn? today the waves had too much water in them. the fish you caught for dinner we cooked in an oil bath. the children are fraying. no iron in my nerves, only cracked pots. illness comes close and goes and comes. electric frogs. wasps. humans with too much and not enough to bear. no turning left in us. kerosene in our eyes. on the one hand i have smallpox in my fingerprints. on the other, i’m holding steel wool.

Michaela Keeble