Twig snaps underfoot and
leaves sashay
to the ground
on an autumn-like summer day

makes me crave that pumpkin
spice, cinnamon harvest,
jack-o-lantern family.

Makes me haunt that memory
of apple clove plug-ins
releasing their cozy, homey
scent into my new, adult world,

into my first apartment after graduating
from college. The small, dark
cave-like space
had a balcony just big enough for
a chair so I kept it bare.

My galley kitchen
boasted fluorescent light
and a freezer with ice
build-up squeezing out
frozen Healthy Choice dinners.

It’s the kitchen I was in
when I sliced off the edge of my thumb
while cutting an apple.
I’d just returned from the gym
and I lived alone,
but then, I was strong,
so strong
I didn’t panic. I reattached
my fingerprint, and pressed a
damp paper towel over the
amputation. The bleeding ceased
quickly and a good witch somewhere
did a spell and Abracadabra!
When I lifted the towel to check
my injury, my finger had already
begun to repair itself.
My body made glue, and the tip
of my thumb was preserved
without even a scar
as proof of the accident.

This is what it means to
live alone.
You could die
and nobody would believe
it happened.