Night Chill

in the vacant living room
our packed boxes never touched,
black mold assumes the ceiling fan.
it awakens every morning
wanting to spin,

to slice into the air
with its fine blades

a surgery of breathing

and the chest waits
for your steady palm
to resuscitate

those numb nights,
when our billowed heat
cooled our voluminous bits


(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review)

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