Borrowed Heat

The radiator is a rusted fist

knocking against the floorboards at three.

I’m huddled under this wool, this itchy mist

of a person who no longer knows me.

There’s a hole where a cherry dropped,

a gray, charred circle in the weave.

I found it when the shivering stopped,

or when I finally started to grieve.

The satin edge is yellow and thin

like old teeth or a used-up day.

It smells of a soap I’ve never been

and a life that drifted away.