buttermilk (poem by John Hulse)

buttermilk

I have been wanting to get rid of

the refrigerator in the kitchen

for a long time.

the ice machine doesn’t make ice.

the freezer doesn’t freeze.

the temperature programming

won’t program.

I started working on it,

right after my mother passed away.

all the poems are coming mom,

right now I’m just trying

to get by without you.

Some days are better than others.

I thought of all the things

you loved to eat

and that I cooked for you.

I found a skillet that made

the perfect fried egg.

your hash browns, extra crispy.

and of course, one of your favorites

to drink, was a glass of buttermilk.

4 or 5 shakes of salt.

Since you’ve been gone there 

hasn’t been any buttermilk

in that cursed fridge,

Until….

Months later I woke up

and wondered into the kitchen,

and the strangest feeling 

came over me as the refrigerator door

slowly started to open.

I felt like someone was about

to tell me something?

Was someone else here?

Was it going to be like one of

those horror movies,

when you shut the door

there’s a monster standing

right next to you?

I helped the door open,

and to my shock 

and otherworldly confusion 

there was a brand new half gallon 

carton of her favorite buttermilk

on the top the top shelf,

directly in front of me.

I was so confused, I actually wondered,

even though I could remember every second

of her funeral,

if my mother was somehow still alive?

(A sensation I have had a thousand

times since she died.)

I took a step back from the door.

Carefully closed it and then 

slowly opened it again.

The buttermilk was still there. Except…

something had changed, I wasn’t sure

what it was, then I tilted my head slightly 

to the right,

and I saw that the milk had been opened 

and exactly

one small sip was missing.

With my heart in my throat,

my chest pounding away,

I closed the door.

No monsters were waiting,

this time anyway,

on the other side.

I decided to keep the milk, but I’m getting

rid of the refrigerator.

That fucking thing is haunted.

https://idiocracy23.blogspot.com/2022/08/1001-ways-to-make-america-great-and.html

“A magisterial collection. A combination of Bukowski’s Last Night of the Earth 

and Orwell’s 1984.”