By: Steve Baltsas
Touchstone, black novice,
Muse of Fire, still clawing back
on the road home. To the only
body you’ve known.
The heating is broken two winters now.
Boiled are the promises there and the
dreams singed for rat fuel.
Cockroach or ant infestation even when
they should be buried, but instead multiply
across the ceiling of your eyes
and tingle up your naked parts to waking.
The air conditioner is broken two summers now.
It had stopped churning daily, the first
You sat around crossed, fanning yourself
with coupons for six packs and dreamt
aloud how much you wanted to touch them.
We still pass now, ask a stranger to buy later.
Peering around as not to get our throat slit,
for there are escapees everywhere, waiting to
flail their box cutters, and diagnoses, and say,
Look what you did to me! and on becoming-
a-man-day, I was sent a razor with no return address
and use it still. It’s never dulled, but I have
to you, not you to me I see, and my
beard grows in again, and moustache, and I
shave my old unibrow alone. I look towards the
mirror and it looks at me and goes behind a door.