Salmon flaked and fragrant
in a bowl, skin and bones
picked away. Circling me,
the dog and cat lick morsels
from my hand, one velvety
tongue, the other sandpaper.
Cut asparagus releases summer
as October windows darken to mirror
me up to my wrists in blended fish,
sour cream, and onion, patties placed
in sizzling oil, the only sound
in this small kitchen. Settling
around the house, a chill the animals curl from.
I pour wine and wait. All the nearly dead
at work are tucked in until tomorrow.
Jillian Barnet is a retired Doctor of Physical Therapy.
She writes poetry and creative nonfiction from a tiny farm in the Finger Lakes area of New York.