Chicago at One Hundred Degrees

Poetry

by Diane Callahan

Tell me the heat don’t bother you,
tell me the sun don’t dare
touch you ’cause it got nothing
on the swelter of skin
fighting for its right
to exist on this goddamn crusty planet—
and when the heat wave
kisses you, it only takes a little
blood, till the cold rush comes
picking through you and slakes
the earth with beads of wet,
steam dancing off the pavement.
Tell me even the rain don’t cool you,
tell me you burn white-hot at your core.

Diane Callahan strives to capture her sliver of the universe through writing poetry, nonfiction, and fantasy. As a developmental editor and ghost-plotter, she spends her days shaping stories. Her work has appeared in Short Édition, Riddled with Arrows, The Sunlight Press, and Rust + Moth, among others.

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