What the World Really Feels Like
Coke cans and refrigerator doors are wired with needles. Even the clip on the dog’s leash has an electrical storm hidden beneath its cool exterior. All week, there’s chemo fire in ice. It burns in my mouth—flames licking my insides on the way down to the center of hell. I almost like it— to reach for a spoon and grasp the heat that pulses through such a small, unassuming thing— or to step outside in winter and press my fingertips against the air’s fierce windows. Some mornings I hold a pitcher of water up to the light just to remind myself that even what’s most beautiful in this world can fall like glass through us all.