Ode to Toaster Ovens
Someone told me Odes must match
their zombie subjects in beauty.
So, when we finish here, this poem
will be balled up and hidden.
This poem will lose itself in nostalgia,
nudge its way around history.
It’ll bump into shit, knock-over vases.
It’ll try to dance with its bad leg.
It’ll sit at a bench and think,
“Here. Here is where I met her smile.”
This poem will rummage and wade
through its grandma’s boxes
and find itself in black and white
remember its childhood nickname:
“Ode. Oh, how could I forget? I’m
an ode. My ink is the last breath.
I come too late. I devour silence.”
And this ode will see its end.
It’ll lean into your ear and ask,
“Won’t you remember toaster ovens?
Won’t you remember your Mammy’s
casserole dish her mammy gave her?
Won’t you remember that ugly
ass prom dress your auntie wore?
Dad’s MASH DVDs, the stuffed bears
you mauled, the wine stains
from the fights, your backyard tree.
Don’t blow me away like
the dust on Granny’s crock pot.”