The Boiler

Zach Fishel

LOVE ONIONS SOMETIMES

Cutting onions
on a bamboo board
is like making love.
Repetition
is the key,
remembering certain movements,
or peeling
the clear skin
underwater. Drowning
the stench,
and using a keen edge,
watching where fingers
are placed,
and not minding
being blinded.

SLOPPED LIKE BUCKET FOOD

Dead batteries
bubbling in a vase

Hangnails cut until
bleeding

Case of beer followed
by cough syrup just to make sure you sleep.

Overworked heaters stinking the room
blacking electric whirls

Anvil eyes
straw hat pulled down enough to keep

The light
out.

ORDER COMPLACENTLY

Sidewinding fires of the etymology
linger like wet smoke

Plastic cups microwaved melting
stained with port wine

Tinged tongues of licorice
old spice and straight silver razors

Sunshine on a bath towel
dish liquid lemons

Stacked along the corners
never neatly,
but never out of line.

_________________________

Zach Fishel is currently the University of Toledo Press Fellow and recent Pushcart Nominee. His work has appeared in many print and online journals. He spends his free time editing between Jumping Blue Gods and Red Fez. His future plans involve owning a few goats and a doctorate in American Literature with an emphasis on William Faulkner and all things wonderful.