Starting the Car in a Hamsin*
The torpid sky lies a blanket, army grey, blotched
phalanxes of shields in wait
trails of winds blowing ovens with their doors left open
as we passed by.
King George’s dragons flaring a thousand breaths
did not scorch like this.
I walked to the car
thrust the key into the cold-looking metal lock
and flung my body in
arms and head crying from the blasting stilled air
grasped the wheel, plastic melting into formless fingers
as a ribbon of fire flashed my hand
around the fiery cocoon.
The car ignited at the first touch;
she likes the heat
gurgles like Satan among the red flames
and shoots away, chortling its delight.
History: #326, Feb. 1989; revised September 1999.
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