The coil glowing on the stove
warns you not to touch it.
Oven at 400, dancing around
the kitchen, I sometimes worship
apocalyptic woes—cockroaches,
tin roof rain, end of days. Myths
of scrounging for sugar, hiding
friends under fake floors. Preparing
for the worst. I pull back the covers
to see what’s feeding on our sleep.
Sweating on the armpits of the apron,
I can’t claim to know one end of the book
from the other, history an ignition chamber
I can’t always count on. So I’m waving
a wand of yellow roses to build up
bullet-proof heaven, dreams of dill
seed sprouting—here, in the afterlife
of heroes, where women lead the pack.
True or false: I fired a shotgun once.
It backfired before the power went out
in the country, all thirteen stripes
Trumpeting: Great Whiteness.
Imagine—being buried alive
with a TV and smart watch.
Flushed cheeks, I’d rather be caught
scheming, crawling toward the interior.
A belief is a delicate bloom. That lava
exists is a fact I choose to accept.
Therefore: strawberries, lip gloss,
hot peppers and panic buttons.
You learn to identify poison.
You punch out of the box.
Nancy Lynée Woo spends her free time hitching a ride to the other side of maybe. She is an MFA candidate at Antioch University, the recipient of fellowships from PEN America, Arts Council for Long Beach, and Idyllwild Writers Week, and the author of two chapbooks. Find her cavorting around Long Beach, California, and online at nancylyneewoo.com.