Death is in the Kitchen

Death is in the kitchen

And he is making me breakfast

He asked me how I would like it

“Peacefully,” I said. “Preferably in my sleep.”

“No,” he said. “Your eggs.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sunnyside up, usually.”

“I’ve already scrambled them,” he replied.

“Well then why even ask me?”

Silence.

I smell him burning the toast

Hear him struggling with the tea

I don’t know how I got here

But I know how I’m going to leave

Originally published in Lumen Literary Magazine, Spring 2015