Timothy Donnelly

Domesticity

Under the castor bean plant, tall as a giraffe, I imagined my life
felled by the toxins. Absorbing a bitter monograph
between cold lentils and a long hot bath, I wished its author
felled by the toxins. Australopithecus, small-brained and largely

fructivorous, may well have been felled by the toxins, but we
have stamina. We were built to last. Look at that
shooting star—shit, you missed it. Look at this picture of
charcuterie—I’ll forward it. Look what happened to the rue—

I overwatered it. I need to check the drainage holes and
just leave it be. I need to hold life close to me. I need to wash it
by hand, even if it’s dishwasher-safe. We need to keep it away
from all these animals. What happened before can’t happen again.

Slathering the butter on, I wondered who eats the most butter.
Hauling garbage down to the garbage area, I wondered
who eats the most garbage. Responding apologetically to the messages
requesting hours of my lifeforce, I wondered how much longer

before function distorts the medium completely. Before the terminal
dram is squeezed out of me. Before I wake to an afterlife
all in white, like the rest of the waitstaff. Before I look to the time
and can’t make out its face, or can’t remember what the word is for.