Questioned Pleasure

When I open the oven

nearest to the ground

I lean in

so I can give the hot air

that prepared my meal

a taste of my face

When I move the seal

under my front door

and enter the winter

which murders

those without seals

or doors

I wear as little as I can stand

making myself bear the frost

and finding a confused joy

in the process

My confidence in that pleasure

falters as I feel it

I wonder

"Is this the residue

of the man

dad so carefully laid foundation for

with shaky hands

in the wrong city

with the wrong materials

in a shape

upon which any building

would soon topple?"

is everything gender