They come for candy floss fluffing 
from foiled waterpipes—humans 
in suits and helmets, like they’re 
astronauts & I’m the moon,

wombing my room with plastic 
and a sign: hazmat. A sweet 
name, skipping. Dinnertime!
The men take the fluff, the sign,

& Hazmat off in their truck 
pregnant with incident 
control. I forget to swallow 
two, three days in a row

my row of sweet pink tabs 
till I see a mom remember 
on TV her girl lost to a clot 
incidented by the candy pill.

Hazmat’s eyes glow pink, 
lean right. Hazmat dreams 
with knives, breathes over. 
Hazmat, my first and fifth. 

Come, solutions of centuries: 
apples, bathtubs, magic wells. 
Breakdowns. Recalls. This time 
the cleaners come with grins.

April Yee is a National Book Critics Circle Emerging Critics Fellow and the University of East Anglia’s Malcolm Bradbury Memorial Scholar. She reported in more than a dozen countries before moving to the UK, where she serves on University of the Arts London’s Refugee Journalism Project and tweets at @aprilyee.