Bolognese
Space.
Time.
Taking it.
Making it.
An overfilled refrigerator.
Full of foods both
expired and not.
Ma left them to rot.
I've utilized it for storage twice
since my electricity was shut off.
She never said it was a problem;
never mentioned it once.
"Take it with you."
Was what she said.
I explained we cannot.
Electric is out.
Can't store it.
Can't heat it up.
I told her we'd be by
to have it in the morning.
She seemed receptive;
didn't say anything.
I wish she did.
I like directness.
I like effective communication.
I came by to shower.
Filmed out in my car.
I put my pop in the freezer -
it was warm.
Dad came by to give me
a hard time,
when it first caught my eye:
Spaghetti by the sink.
Plastic wrap falling off the top.
Leftovers left to die.
Serving size of two or three.
A weight sat in my stomach.
I sat with disappointment.
I had been looking forward to it.
She said it had only been sitting there
for an hour.
I asked if she had any.
I told her yesterday that she could.
She said she hadn't;
she left it on the counter
to throw it away
since we didn't take it with us.
Mama, I do have a fridge to store it.
It must be nice to not worry
about food wasted.
It must be nice
to not have to worry
about when you will
next be fed.
With reality, she disconnects.
I told her we came to eat it;
I no longer feel comfortable to
since it was sitting out.
With that, I don't stand my ground.
I got Enoch's opinion;
we chose to eat it.
We were hungry -
had no money;
didn't know when we'd eat next.
We took it to go.
Blood was boiling;
heart threatening to pound
out of my chest.
I am not surprised that she would
not allow me to take up space.
She cannot say
it is because I do not live there.
I didn't have the luxury
when I did either.
Trust broken once again.
Communication as thin as
a slice of bread.
Written by aprilfool🐸
7/27/2026




















