DEAD AIR Poem by Nicolette Stasko

Apparently
every room has dead air
something to do with the sound
and each unique
I am trapped inside
like the air
swimming in gelatine clear
extract of hoof and bone
it is the fourth day
I follow the ritual
precisely
trailing the sun
as it moves around the house
testing the panes of glass
with my face
for the exact moment
of opening or closing
drawing the blinds pulling
the curtains shut
I can tell the time
on this heat clock
like a midwife I long
for some kind of birth
watching steam
from the kettle rise
to the skylight
like a sacrifice