LAST NIGHT, I TURNED OFF THE PILOT LIGHT,

by anthony thomas lombardi

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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.