Winter: my electric microwave
  room is turning me into jerky.
  I lift the fleece sheets and
  prick my finger on a barb
  of lightning; I try on a slipper,
  and static punctures my sole.
  Back in bed, I watch the ceiling
  rotate, my head growing lighter as
  its precious saltwater evaporates,
  escapes from my circuit of exit
  wounds. Good food. Pure food.

A fish removed from its ocean
  then removed again for good
  measure. I struggle towards
  the supercharged doorknob, pop
  open the door, and the greedy city
  burns its grey hand to grab me,
  quick and easy sterilized meat
  dry as a crackling wire, ready to be
  chewed up and digested in its
  urban tract of gutters—go ahead,

eat me. You severed me from my foreign
  contaminants, and now I’m reduced
  to a briny husk. I hope the taste of it
  stings. I hope it swims up your throat.

Copyright © 2026 by Nico Santana