My brother the doctor told me what to
do: sit in a tub of scorching water,
so hot you can barely stand it. But you
know how defiant I am. I slaughter
suggestions, or at least twist them, muddle
a shape so a coat hanger looks like my
patent. I bought a hot water bottle,
stuffed it with scalding tap. Let my butt fry
on it for half an hour while I’m typing
this sonnet’s first draft. Tell myself how pain
seasons life, makes it palatable, sings
of insane courage, like crawling in rain
naked. I’m crafting gross answers to pass
off with this cruel joke: What burns my ass?
Roger Armbrust
January 30, 2011
