Post Point Poem by Indigo Hawkins

The kitchen is a good place for smothering things
that ought not to be smothered. As good a place as any.
There’s a fan. You know when it stops turning, you’ll start
burning, fill with smoke. Spend another morning attempting
to feel useful and not used. Things like pride shouldn’t be eaten.
There’s a window and a well-beaten path. A plastic pitcher full of fake
vermilion nectar, to attract humming. Birds. Mostly what attracts you is
the wings, the unfrantic flitting, the frivolity of speed. You hum along,
unconcerned by the lack of a tune, feeling the familiar distance,
that space between you and the song. Rejection tastes
bitterer once cooked, even when properly prepared.
The oven keeps beeping, insisting it’s time.
Soon you’ll overheat.