Carrie Vaccaro Nelkin

THE FIRST APARTMENT

The water near boiling

rattles in the kettle.

This third cup of tea

just for warmth

does not calm the knuckles,

soothe the knees,

unstiffen the back.

I am an old, old fetus,

curled when I sleep and

curled when I walk, pulling

through nostrils

marinated cold,

muttering memories

of hot air banging

through pipes,

walls venerable

in age, buildings

that do not lean

with the earth, leaving

orifices

for the breathing night.

The oven turned on

smells like last night’s fish.

I choke

hot fat odor

and decide

I could well build a fire

in the kitchen,

throwing

as my first morsel to it