dash

Salvage Job


They slice the roof-tiles off with spatulas,
a splatter-fall like pancake dribbles; now
the roof is wearing bandaids. Cut and paste;
they peel and unpeel, deftly

                                                     And I feel
exactly like that deconstructed house;
time peels me like an orange piece by piece
methodically, so nothing's wasted: floors
of paneled oak and cast-iron bathtubs pulled
to decorate the new arrivals, stripped
like junkyard cars sold piecemeal:

                                                               rust is worse;

I throw my doors wide open. But they fling
your insides out the window, sheet-rock scabs
too old to bleed, and that's my organ you
just tossed into the keep-pile. Wrecking balls
are out of fashion: copper inner tubes
are salvageable (my intestines ache):

look, I approve in theory. And feel flayed

Kathryn Jacobs

If you have any comments on this poem, Kathryn Jacobs would be pleased to hear from you.

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