I sit in my dim matchbox,
Crowded around the glowing open mouth
Of the electric oven.
The blazing coils dim and intensify
With each wandering breath.
These are the duties of the righteous,
The ways of the anointed.
And she pulls me away from the oven
And she rubs my burns with ointment.
Last night she’d been
Ironing shirts and trying her best to explain
Something important to the children
And you waited
Behind a pile of linen.
The word linen seems inherently clean.
Soiled linen is no longer linen –
It is a rag.
Just as to spit-clean is inherently not clean.
And here I am filled with my own spit.
My house floats on a lawn.
In the icehouse I'd clear my name
From a scruff of ponderosa pines.
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