Jane Miller / Dementia There is a refrigerator, old and white with rounded corners and a small handle like a car door. There are shelves for food past expiration date and bodies past usefulness. There is a bag of linguine mounded like brains. Red sauce soured with age. There is a boy running from injected war, a girl who fears the dark of her growing blindness, the man who knits himself into the far reaches of this upright morgue, who knows the wrong secrets that kill. I am there, hiding on the racks of these forsaken shelves, leftover plots, their edges curled and hard as a taunt, black rot waiting in the air.
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