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. 
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