The woman will enter the poem

The woman will enter the poem through the back door and press her teeth between the knobs. She will look for unfamiliar faces in the dark, unhook the ceiling, and crease the wooden floor. She will clog the kitchen sink and keep the water running. She will burn lentils on the stove and leave it uncooked; will thoroughly rinse the minced meat and taste of Tabasco. She will spread chia seeds on the tiles. She will scratch the orange’s skin and eat the leftovers. She will buy Asian rice from the retail store and feed it to the birds. She will steal a packet of cigarettes. Plants will teach her Russian. She will plant fishes in the backyard. She will add hibiscus to the chimney and clear the house owner’s debt. Her breath—the smell of smoke. She will violate all the migration laws. Forget about the notion templates. Or the tax sheets. Or the word files. She will dig silt in the garden of your teeth. She will prepare new grocery lists. Will part the sea, decompose the sun, and crack open the earth neat. She will smell the apocalypse coming. Will stitch torn old newspapers into the curtain wall. She will dream of silhouettes, make a river out of funerals. She will unlove rotten men, chew knotted sorrow with salmon. She will add salt to the tea, prepare one-pot dinners in Chinese bowls, and bury the ceramic in the ground. She will think of the town of the dead. She will leave her bones on the kitchen table and will slowly move out of the closet.