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flatline

​by Jody Chan
that summer, you leave me every day—partner, kid, bad job. your heat
dissipates wastefully into the air as I watch you go, shivering. static heat

parches the city streets of those who can afford air conditioning. ash
scars our eyes, our throats, from wildfires a thousand miles away. heat 

in the body’s water. sweat with nowhere to go. so I wonder if my lungs
will last the night. so the hospital phones ring like rain. officials count heat

deaths lackadaisically, misplacing entire buildings. so many lost loves.
our ceiling fan pushes air, wetter than regret, hotter than skin. no draft,

no grass, no shade for blocks. doors locked from the inside, answering 
machines filling hello are you okay please call me back. mapping heat

islands, we find not all neighbours equal. chain link fences border concrete
apartment towers from old evergreens. when our hands touch, they boil.

in the night’s metal hum, we climb to the roof, feet heat-swollen. you give
me what I need and I still need it. contact. blackout. a missile seeking heat.
Jody Chan is a writer and organizer based in Toronto. They are the poetry editor for Hematopoeisis and the author of haunt (Damaged Goods Press, 2018) and sick, winner of the 2018 St. Lawrence Book Award. Their work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, and published in Third Coast, BOAAT, Yes Poetry, Nat. Brut, The Shade Journal, and elsewhere. They have received fellowships from VONA and Tin House. They can be found online at https://www.jodychan.com/ and offline in bookstores or dog parks.
  • Alegrarse
  • About
  • Submissions
  • 2019 Recommended Reading
  • Archives
    • Alegrarse Issue Two
    • Alegrarse Issue One
    • Alegrarse: The Close-Readings Issue
  • FAQ