Creeping Normality

when soft voices die (P.B. Shelley)

by Lesley Graham

Are we not all Cecilia sweating it out 
  in the steam room
stubbornly heart-singing as we come to a simmer
like lobsters in a pot?
Wet heat rises, pearls of salt liquor 
glow-lace our foreheads
tropical armpits glisten, scalded lungs expel
  plumes of muted protest 
through nostrils agape
Our panting brains tick over, just
          & still our hearts sing out      
quasi niente
Barring a miracle, the steam room will smother us all
but not today for like Cecilia
we have settled into the white fog
of incremental demise, deaf to the alarm
ringing out in the high notes —
praying for the fiery winged angel
to reach us before the axe