Second Degree

The radiator is clicking in the corner

though the window is open and the air is thick.

I am my own frantic mourner,

pulling at a translucent strip

of myself in the mirror. It comes away

like wet parchment, or the skin of an onion.

It’s the price I have to pay

for an afternoon of mindless sunning.

The white edge of my collar catches

on the raw, pink landscape of my neck.

I’m a collection of heat and red patches,

keeping my own fire in check.