I’m glad they call it a heat dome
because a heat wave
implies movement
and this is the opposite
of anything
that flows.
I am a slug
in a jar
in an oven.
My husband asks me a question
and I just look at him,
incredulous,
wondering how he expects
me to produce any words
when clearly they are stuck
like tar to my tongue.
The air is not only hot
but thick,
pressing into my skin
as though begging me
to be still.
So I lie down,
elevating the puffy parts,
with ice packs placed in a line
up the centre of me
like some kind of chakra ritual.
I am humbled
by my inability to hover above
this experience;
instead my thoughts
are just a bag of bugs
flapping against this heat dome,
with weak and whiny words:
“let me out.”