LAST NIGHT, I TURNED OFF THE PILOT LIGHT,
by anthony thomas lombardi
certain that the heat from my cheeks
could snuff out nearly any act
of violence. I’ve caught enough lions
by the tail to understand the meaning
of scar tissue: an anger so pointed it could
take out an eye. it wasn’t until
I ran out of room on my forearms
that I learned the difference between
an itch’s temporary relief & the wound
that smooths over it — the way wind whips
sand into nothing. I don’t know where
my limit is. I find a branch that won’t flood
my senses with pine oil when I snap it,
whisper, I’m sorry, use it to draw a tidy line,
& tiptoe directly across it. the warmth of blush
that creeps up my throat paints my face
its most natural of hues. God catches me
by the ponytail, a creature worth saving, but when
I spit up the Eucharist, I don’t know how to
tell Him it isn’t because I’m not hungry —
I just can’t stop laughing. must be nice,
God scoffs, to be so sated. the word sated
is sharp as a shard of glass. my toothiness
is getting on God’s nerves. I’ve been learning
to breathe so quiet that the thrum
of a lightbulb is like thunder
in my ears. last night, I exhaled so heavily
I knocked over a lamp post. the car alarms
sang so loud & I fell asleep so thirsty,
like dirt that has never known rain.