Right-o. I really am not a fan of heat, by the way. Just...thoughts. I would have included references to Farenheit 451, but unfortunately I haven't read it yet. Yes, I know. [turns away in shame] (As for the other, not-so-blatant reference...cookie points to those who guess it!) Enough talking.

Kelvin's Children

The snow was not meant
to be an alembic,
but a schoolyard bully's
preaching overkill that
aches only after
mother's castigations
are visibly traced with frost;
they penetrate the intoxication.

Home is not neutral,
nor is it room temperature;
it is not a smoldering French cafe
in which I become an expatriate.
Taking up a pen
to write away bullet holes
and shrapnel scars -
it is not a haven.
It does not heal.

The oven burns through
layer after layer of drugged skin,
the heat a true poultice,
and I think of the sultry summer
when the Rosenbergs
were executed
and that blistering afternoon
when Jay Gatsby went out
for his first swim
and paid for it with his legacy.

'The Holocaust is complete.'
Yes, and what about
the memories that never die?
Do they simply melt together
like the metal
they're made of,
do they wither like
blades of grass in August,
do they do anything of consequence
at all, do they do they do they?

Or do they remain as
gold-capped enamel,
waiting for the unadorned arrival
of winter again?
It paves the way,
it clears the view
so that I can see the mountains
and ask myself what they did
with the sun.
Three months are all that matters;
three months to paint legends
and write heroics.
Three months to outsmart
the schoolyard bully.

It doesn't seem complete, somehow.