I shut the door on you and ran
you through the rinse cycle. I
am ordinarily the type of girl who
coaxes your kind along and out
with a sheet of notebook paper.
But last night I was tired. Last
night it was easier to wash you
away than to remind myself that
even the tiniest being deserves
a break. That what I may find
unattractive merits no less
compassion than something
“cute.” So I closed the door
on you, figuring that your end
would be swift and painless.
As if that makes a difference.
Playing god in my kitchen, I
wonder if there is a similar
divine apology for each larger
act of senseless deluge, or the
of the unfairness of it all, even when you know you
could stop it from happening if you just weren’t so tired.