Hot Blood Underground

By: Ayah Abdul-Rauf

He is anchored to the cold room’s center
By metallic, unused fetters
Reluctance is his parapet and it’s likely to collapse
He lies amidst rusted traps
He is the first catch.

His thoughts are connected by sloppy toy seams
The reports about him are printed in reams
His limbs are connected by sloppy toy seams. Sometimes he comes undone.
Sometimes he comes undone.
Sometimes, he comes: undone.