By Claire Becker

To conserve ice,
I rub it on burned fingers

before putting it in my drink.
The egg burning still.

Lightning and sun on the leaves,
blue-gray behind the brownstones.

Too powerful, the bird call
outside, above the chainsaw.

Engine; bark; brakes:
constant sounds of the city,

not often helpful.
I've brought no clothes

for a funeral. I'm rationalizing
a death. This place

becomes my home. Brooklyn,
the brownstone.

Home, you go insane.
My head, a virtual idea file.

Get a microphone.
It empties all the time.

Conserve the ice
when it's hot outside,

when you don't want to leave.
I make a large mess.

Red bricks against
green leaves.

Claire Becker MFA '06 teaches high school at the California School for the Blind and co-edits the journal RealPoetik. Her first book, Where We Think It Should Go, is forthcoming from Octopus Books. She was featured in the Creative Writing Reading Series on May 5. This poem originally appeared in The Cultural Society.

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