Poem Body
The largest oven is the South on an August afternoon.
Blinding light from reflects off the singed grass and parched ground,
Heating every surface to 350℉ for 30 minutes,
Making a cobbler of the world.
They say in Texas you can cook an egg on the sidewalk.
The coil of the sun radiates penetrating heat
Roasting the flesh and cooking the brains of laborers in the fields.
No relief from the humid convection that bakes dust and dirt to your sweat-steamed skin.
Permanent head-in-the-oven breathing searing air,
Hearing your own blood sizzle under charred skin.
Comments
I can feel the heat
We always have a few cold days around Thanksgiving and Christmas here, but without fail Thanksgiving day and Christmas day when I am stuck in a hot kitchen all day, there is no relief when opening a window! I distinctly remember two years ago, playing barefoot outside on Christmas day in a t-shirt and shorts (and I don't like to wear shorts). It was that hot.
If I could make a small suggestion, it would be to consider using hyphens or maybe quotation marks on head in the oven. I think that will help the flow of that line.
Loved the images, as visceral as they are.
Kelsey