By Sera Jonas Jakob
today
it seems as though
the hot water that comes out of the pipes
is screaming as it jets out
high pitched and shrill
although
perhaps what i hear is merely
transference
from the
skin of Gaia roasting
the sows pinned down in stalls
lobsters in cooking pots
mortgage prisoners slumped over power bills
bees dismembered by murder hornets
moths befuddled in overlit streets
the great seas expanding
or my mind
with the realisation that
i can no longer carry the burden
of your
love
i give the tap an eighth of a turn
the keening stops