Convection

The tortilla is charring on the open ring,

filling the kitchen with a dry, toasted weight.

I let it sit too long, distracted by the rain,

and now the air tastes like a match struck in the dark.

The smoke alarm gives a single, sharp chirp,

that low-battery panic that sounds like a trapped bird.

I wave a dish towel at the plastic box on the ceiling,

feeling the heat of the stove press against my neck.

In the greasy reflection of the darkened windowpane,

the heating element is a perfect, angry orange.

It’s a small sun in a room that is mostly shadow,

burning through the quiet until I finally turn the dial.