Dry Pipe

The radiator clanks like a dying car

and the air is a mouthful of sand.

I don’t know where the liquids are

in this parched and peeling land.

My tongue is a board against my teeth,

stuck to the roof of my mouth.

There’s a desert heat living underneath

running from north to south.

I turned the tap but the water stayed lukewarm,

with a heavy, metallic bite.

I’m waiting for a different kind of storm

to get me through the night.