by Kate Greene

Walking through our apartment I hold

                a pouch in my hand. Salad dressing,

ranch, I think. But then I know

               it’s from Ukraine, remnants of a disaster

that doesn’t quit. Why am I cutting it open?

              The lining inside metallic

Pouring it out?

            Behind the couch? Menthol blue,

liquid like antifreeze and leukemia.

             The cameras will see the problem.

Someone else will take care of this.

Kate Greene is a poet, essayist, journalist, and former laser physicist. She lives in San Francisco.