I grabbed the doorknob and it burned my hand.
The door was frozen shut in that much heat.
“And this is how you die …” I dropped down flat
and slithered toward the door to the garage.
That's where they found me, curled up like a fetus,
most of my arm skin burned away, not worth
reviving, truly. In the ambulance,
I said it best: “Please, God, don't let me live.”
I do burn cases now, a plastic surgeon;
when they first ask about my waffled skin
I know they're going to make it. I explain
about my grafts, how thighs and butt and groin
supplied the stuff that covers arms and hands.
I don't detail how many operations.
They start to think of life, of coming back.
I do not tell them, though, because they know,
that when you've been to hell, a part of you
will always stay there, stopped at that hot door.