The Jesus Fridge

Your fridge died last week. The light
still came on when you opened the door,
like a doll sticking out her yellow tongue,
but the jar of pickle spears, the oat milk
in its blue cardboard house, the yogurt
were warm as an average day in Santa Monica.
A couple hundred dollars of provisions
down the figurative drain. A new fridge,
a vertical morgue with shelves, was ordered
and set to be delivered from the truck’s womb,
when wait—the dead fridge came back to life.
The Jesus Fridge. The dead food healthy again.
This phrase was funny to you last week.
The collision of the mundane and mechanical
with the long-haired and sanctimonious.
But it’s not funny today. The world has changed.
This is a George Floyd moment for both Israelis
and Palestinians. Actually scratch that.
It’s a George Floyd moment for both Americans
who sympathize with Israel and Americans
who sympathize with Palestinians. It’s a holy fuck
moment for anyone who cares about human life. 
Upstairs the bathtub is filling with blood.
How big would the swimming pool have to be
to hold all the red salty stuff spilled the last week?
Who will recline in the fresh blood bath?
What swimmers will adjust their goggles
and freestyle the miles of blood?