bright-yellow foil-wrapped Kerrygold butter 
and a white-and-black 
strawberry Häagen-Dazs carton 
stood out 

among clear bags of rotting vegetables 
cube after cube 
of pale-yellow store-brand butter 
wrapped in wax-paper 
and white plastic yogurt containers 

completely filling the sink 
and rising in a mound 
above the level of the kitchen counter 
like dirt on a fresh grave 

a sweet-and-sour rot in the air 
from sitting 
a couple of weeks 

surrounded 
with half-drunk San Antonio Winery bottles 
green 
as envy or money 
black screw caps on tight 

after the woman who lived there 
emptied her refrigerator 
and wheeled it 
late one night into a waiting U-Haul truck. 

she’d lived there 
five years on her first month’s rent 
thanks to Covid 
and the State of California 
putting a moratorium 
on evictions. 

everyone in the building 
heard her 
time and time over those years 

the woman and her boyfriend 
fucking long and loud 
then yelling 
the volume rising 
until they stabbed each other 

the blood trail 
ran down the concrete walk beside the building 
onto the sidewalk 
where she chased him 
down the street 
all the way to the intersection. 

he came back 
they put away their knives 
and fucked some more. 

when he moved out 
she stuffed 
a sky-blue blanket 
top sheet 
and king-sized pillow 
into the laundry-room trash 

and the week before she left 
a black 
pair of woman’s workout pants 
in the same trashcan. 

Bio: Jonathan Yungkans