because when all is told, i love objects. even the threatening ones.

—ágnes nemes nagy

every few minutes, through a metal flue

the throat bursts into flames from the furnace

above my bed. it’s the color

of fire. i can see the chokeholds catch.

fire ants carry off the heat

down the metal ducts, and the vents

push out the heat, which falls

down the walls behind me

in drapes.

i try to imagine

my mother’s hair on fire.

that under her flame colored skin

were bones. that a skeleton smiles

on fire. that if a bone skeleton

tried to hold you, you would

run. that a bone

stack of fire would not run

but would come to you gently, outstretched

arms ablaze, flames still lapping at eyeballs

that were no longer there. that through

the rib of the bones you could

see her throat catch fire

every time she tried to explain

why she called the time operator at night

to listen to her voice. in her sleep

she would call out to her mother.

her throat on fire. the bones

churning the pillows.

people said she was a sweet woman.

sweet

was stuck to her

the way smiles are stuck

to skeletons.

someone had to tell me

you are supposed to put the pilot out in spring

and turn off the gas.