as my refrigerator, except for maybe
my son’s Gatorade that I’ve saved, in hopes
to fill their vacuous heads with something
other than promises. I’ve fed them meat right off

the bone. I gave them wine borne from this
blood alone. I stripped the shelves of milk
and bread. I handed them olive branches. Nothing
could saturate their fathomless pits, not even

the figgy pudding at Christmas. So, I stopped
filling the box. And let it sit until the frost covered
the inside, an empty landscape of leftover onion
wrappings, that look as the autumn leaves

after they’ve fallen from the backyard
trees. This stark Levine is spreading as
a cancer. I've nothing extra. And the only one
to answer is Alexa.