Issue 2: March 2006.
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Home > Issue 2: March 2006 > Poetry
Hot Heat Blues
by Matthew Kaberline
Sun, who asked you
To sizzle all kinds
Of sinister on us?
Sear solid ground
Like a T-bone steak,
Like skillet cakes?
Sun, you got me hot
Under the collar, hot
Enough to break
Eggs and whisk, whisk,
'Cause the yolks, well,
They look like you.
Fans ain't no good,
Throwing batches
Of our breath back
In our sweat greased
Faces, while ice melts
Away like minutes, but
We defeat you—
Air Con-di-tion-ing,
Holy jackpot of cool
Breezes freezes our sticky
Selves. Sun, how do you like
My seventy degrees?
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