Laura F. Walton
It's Hot in Here

tin ceiling.

 

                                                          (engage thyself! this roof

                                                            delivered above thy head

                                                            is fine, fine.)

 

turn off the gas,

dear ladies, and find out what it’s like to drag

to dust an empty carapace.

our shells are everywhere: digested bits deposited

into museums, fertilizer left behind

after the long internal fire.

 

                                                           (thou art

                                                            fucking incredible.)

 

stamped and painted over

six thousand times, and still it hovers

over cigar smoke, furnace air.

such a lovely limitation!

such charm, style!

such peeling grace through a thousand molts

watching over poetry and pies!

 

                                                           (thy name is human.

                                                            find some asbestos pajamas.)

 

 

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