Angel Rosen
THE KILNING
I inherited this gene,
the one that causes me to flicker.
The one that designates that
I remain absent of flowers,
the one that does not let me
live reduced. All roads,
paved or dangerous, lead
only to excision. I was picked
out of a pamphlet of panthers
someone’s lazily thumbing over—
I was given a carnation and
a bilateral collapse. The woman
is so good at thickening, stir,
but not too much. You should
be able to go home soon.
It’s in the brochure, your anatomy,
you should be able to
go home soon.
Hospital’s all sorted, the orderlies
intermittently responding
to my demands. The woman
is so good at thickening, stir,
but not too much. If anyone handsome
took a break from encouraging me
long enough to be sure-footed,
maybe we could do the Charleston.
This body’s a fanfare. It’s an excuse.
Flamboyant, the sons I could have,
if God gave me a kiln
and any pressure.