September 2020

The world is a red dwarf star
made from sweat and ash
and Santa Ana winds promising
winters too warm to recognize.
Another hot flash
sweeps up my back
like brush fire.
Entropy, the nurse assures me
as she rubs a transducer
over each breast,
her face blank as snow.
She drives in on one particular spot,
thinking she’s found
an uncharted moon.
What was once hourglass
is turning desert, an alien
landscape I still call home.
The sky remains blood red
for days, a long lost memory
of the fire she used to be,
one no baptism could quench.