And immediately I think
in Fahrenheit. I see my hand,
a microcosm, in your hand. There’s a lake
between our palms, and dead soldiers
staring at the sky. 
Flies have replaced their eyes.

I realize thirst before the reflection.
I realize one day you may never call.
I realize how time stops
whenever a bomb explodes. 
Does it matter then if two-thirds 
of the earth’s surface is exposed land? 

We both want something back
from Baghdad. Yesterday I lost 
my mother’s only good kettle
as I stared out the window.
It turned black on the outside 
while inside the water boiled into white
rings and disappeared.

Where you are, you say, the heat 
becomes oppressive, untamed, 
when you’re not careful.
Will you be gone like that?
Every hour condenses into a single fear.
60% of the human body is water.

Bio: Arlene Ang