The fridge is currently empty of ghosts:
there are no expired pets whose bodies
are waiting to be treated
with more care and consideration
than you give the chunked lamb, the spiralized cow,
the slivered salmon, the whole chicken
(minus head, feathers, feet, certain organs).
There are no cats, no small dogs,
sealed in zip-top bags in preparation
for you to take them to be burned:
moved from freezer to fire to quiet
boxes on the shelf, added to your collection
of old friends, of dust getting dustier.
The fridge is empty of those ghosts
and yet something is rattling inside—
perhaps a gerbil is loose
in the lettuce bin and asking to come out;
perhaps it has eaten all your purple kale
and the kohlrabi tucked like river
stones under a wash of greener veg.
Perhaps, this evening, when you open the door
and reach for the packet of leaking beef
the gerbil will creep forward,
real and alive and gnashing
a fat cabbage worm it wrested
from your locally grown cauliflower.
Maybe it will have blood in its teeth.