"you were not meant to thrive here.”
she told me, as she put out her cigarette.
her teeth are piling in the corner,
they’re yellowed and brown
my baby teeth are piling by the stove,
a reminder of why she is here.
we eat spaghetti for the fifth time this week,
we sweat. we burn.
one hundred degree oklahoma heat,
the air conditioner stopped running two summers ago.
I am panting on the sidewalk,
outside the crumbling house.
in the spring time, whirling winds take the chosen away
far from here,
yet in the summer we all burn under the scorching light.