A face in the public domain
Toasting the miracle
In the winter, I harvested the forgotten frozen items for each meal. Chipped ice bounties of spinach in bags and broccoli bake. My microwave became a production line, and after every whistle, a conveyer belt locomoted the bowl to my mouth at the end of the countdown. Tongue and cheeks numbed by impatience and the fog of heat escaping; the season was blistered with taste-free tastebuds.
All my friends seemed to have good news the autumn before, with each celebratory message accompanied by a pink bow. The flow of joy on the back of bubbles kept me in headaches for almost a whole month. I celebrated and waited for the celebration. Lean accounts followed the splendor, and memories reminded me of the pleasures. The visions of delight carried no superfluous meat.
With the winter arrival, I found the most sympathetic door jambs and I rested my head against them, room to room, and let loose as they held me up. No splinters as I slid, held my hand against their body as I trickled down. So slippery for wood. I exchanged pillows for doorways where Winter was neither coming nor going.
