Fixing the Oven

It’s like you’re wiring shut its jaw,
I said, while Nathaniel tightened the metal,

threaded the line in laps around two screws,
and I pressed my fingers to the wound

between yellow insulation foam and the actual
oven door, hot, fallen open.

Years ago, my friend Rohit got mugged
and had to walk around with his teeth clenched

like this, sipping bad milkshakes, reading up
on self defense. He healed

enough to kiss the wrong woman, in a low
blue bed, on a night almost cold

enough to excuse it. Tonight, what’s temporary is
holding. The stove stops spilling

classified knowledge, and I start for home,
my scarf over my mouth. If they’re expecting it

to snow, I haven’t heard. Some boy’s black dog
trails me uphill. I mean, some star.