Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-four
Spring 2014
 
A Better Furnace
Amanda Kimmerly

I would like to spare the part where we screamed at the linens
for being too soft, our bodies, pulled down, like paperweights.

and afterward, searching for scrunched clothes, caught
like moths between them.

clever bed, I said, settling in deeper.

skip over his hands lighting matches; breath, moist as a forest.

the part where I said Pretend Your Name is Jim. And this is our home.
And you love me like our first leap year


before the mind, in too many frames, sweat out its fears. I paused.

Promise me—

        Promise me!

that within the parameters of this bed, there is no such vain penalty
          as children!—


How he, silent as a ceiling fan, kept going.

   or future torture of a house with no heat!

Remember returning home. That tiny furnace. Jim, stoking the fire with twigs.

Forget how cold it is everywhere.

About Amanda Kimmerly

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