First, walk up the hill to watch the buzzards creak
their wings above the body of a slack-eyed doe,
life just finished, gray flanks soft and still.
Back home, go round and open doors—
kitchen cupboards, and linen closets,
the cold metal lid of the Maytag machine.
Find one scrap of card at the back of a drawer—
loops of script from a friend who died too young.
Then, too, clean the fridge. Throw out the Tupperware
you fear to open. Carry out the trash
under a half-moon fading towards quarter.
Be sure to disregard your heart—
its boring habit of finding portents and signs
in nothing. You’re still alive.
Close the door behind you and process words.
Jessamine Price's poems and essays have appeared in journals such as Hunger Mountain, the Delmarva Review, and Poets Reading the News. Her work has also been anthologized and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has an MFA from American University and currently teaches in South Korea. Follow her @JessaminePrice.