cabinet hinges unstick themselves,
arthritic knobs of dust and cracked paint
rendered floorward and

there are family-sized tylenol and ibuprofen bottles,
filled and cottoned.
the traffic vests of creme and tangerine pills blink
caution, do not enter and

you, the archeologist, the excavator, the historian, is careful.
you wear gloves
when you remove expired athlete’s foot spray;
the can’s seat burnt a cord of rust into the pine.

you could catch things here like tetanus, and
the expired leg cramp pills, all seven cases of them,
wouldn’t save you and

neither would the homeopathic bug spray or toe separators
or elderberry chews or Neutrogena sunscreen and

you know it’s like vinegared wine or cursed scarabs
waiting in the moist dark, stone wings
chirping against topaz and

some haven’t worked
since 2019, like you. and

thank goodness
they were just two,
two only, and you are not one of them but

you think about how
they left the plastic wrap on the vitamin D
and three packets of birth control meant to be
had with a poached egg, with eighty-four poached eggs and

you marvel at the calcium chews and wonder
if he brought her one with coffee in the morning, if
their lungs inflated and deflated to take in the bitter
ether, their alveoli swelling in fossilized veins and

if in that moment they wondered if their bones
would enrich the soil and

never
soften.

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You can find Salena Casha’s most recently published pieces at trampset, Pithead Chapel, CLOVES, and Full Mood Mag. Follow her on twitter @salaylay_c