Gilly Flower Writings

The Fridge is Empty

By Kathryn Evans

No matter how times

I pull open that depressingly

light door, there is nothing,

not even a week-old box

of chow mien.

That smooth, white interior

mocks me with sticky

stains that only represent

a time when that box

was more bountiful.

I vaguely consider the possible

combinations of ketchup, a few packets

of soy sauce, some duck sauce,

and an overly ripe banana.

My stomach moans in protest

to the involuntary fast

that has been imposed.

It cries out for the tiniest morsel

that might be consumed

to relieve the pangs of hunger.

I let the door swing closed

and it presses shut with a suctioned sigh.