You were frozen in the middle of a piece, crammed inside an ancient Frigidaire, the door hanging open like the mouth of an abandoned home. There was a hunk of lamb at your feet and a trout resting on your kid sister’s lap. You were both wearing bonnets. The fish looked up at you during the climax of the work, as if to say, “It is far too hot for this, Sadie.”
I had planned to review this piece on my blog even though we are friends; but all that came out was this poem. I could not assign you a certain number of stars if my life depended on it, which it does. I wonder, as do all the critics online, who Sadie is or what she represents when frozen.