Ryan Quinn Flanagan

London, Ontario

I was never allowed to go

into the fridge when

we stayed at my uncle’s house

in London

because he kept a loaded .22

in the crisper.

He said it was for burglars and

no one asked questions.

Each morning

my aunt made blueberry waffles

with whipped cream

which she kept on the

amply stocked shelf

above the

crisper full of cartridges.

I liked my blueberries cold.

My uncle liked his ammunition

the same way.

When my aunt filed for divorce

three years later

she was awarded the fridge

in the settlement.

But I imagine my uncle

got a new one

in which to store his guns.

Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine. Vancouver, BC. Volume V (Fall 2008). p. 32.