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