I’m pulling off my nails
with a pair of old pliers,
interrogating my mind
as to uncover why
I did not take out the trash
before I left for my uncle’s funeral
and let the pomegranates grow mold
on top of my fridge while I was gone.
I would throw away
the bloody fingernails if I could,
but I still haven’t taken out the trash
three days after coming back
so they’re sitting in the mold
that’s grown down the fridge
and now covers the floor.