Heat Wave Number Five

Heat Wave Number Five - Poem

Heat Wave Number Five

I am done with heat.

Done with the sky turning biblical red

when it’s nearly forty degrees in a country

that never asked for deserts.

Done with birds circling like warnings,

clouds stacking in strange formations

as if the world is tilting on its axis.

My body is a furnace with no off‑switch,

my pee boiling like kettle water,

my brain blocked by Veoza just to let me sip tea

without triggering the fight‑or‑flight of digestion.

I walk through eclipses and heatwaves

like someone being tested by a god I don’t believe in.

Heat wave number five:

I am just waiting for the locusts.

I am finished.

I am scorched.

I am done.

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