The Tea Kettle
The tea kettle boils over, and over, and over upon my feet
but the burn feels like ice and it freezes my soul.
The static from the radio pulls shut my eyes and I see snow.
My stomach coils up in knots as I recall my dream from this morning
when I was shot thirteen times in the back and then tortured.
He pulls the flesh off my arm and eats it in front of my eyes.
Also the woman he strung by her organs between houses in the snow,
and my lover being stolen away by a madman who slits his wrists and drinks
himself down until his face turns pale and eyes sunken.
I remember the food he fed me. It tasted like iron.
The tea kettle whistles and my eyes open again.
The kitten in my lap purrs and kneads my leg.
Where have I been?