Poem: Kettle

 

 

Kettle 

 

my february-cold face sinks

toward a coil under kettle and water,

a serpent of warm orange

deviantly hot-blooded,

whose industrial mettle

plays young to the cataract stare

of windows glazed by frost.

 

the kettle casts a spell,

encouraged by my quest,

of little emissaries of air

which launch ocular as they plunge upward

toward my fevered gaze.

 

first a few then streams then a

kettleful of eyes which mushroom

in the effervesce, each one

of them a momentarily ogle

devoid of anything at all

except perhaps a hint of innocence.

 

such is the bubble-boil brouhaha,

a frenzied figleaf of drama,

sandwiched between clones

of drywall and ancient pale-lime paint and

those wizened panes of icy squares.

 

on and on

the replenish of little dots

rises in sways of columns,

tucked in their bell-curve of glass.

collectively a specter,

they condense into a blurry patina of steam,

concealing the weave of  tears

on my flushed face.

 

 

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10/9/24 ... renamed poem "Kettle"

Slyia Plath inspired