by Laura Dunn
and the red dirt
where a bit of ash scoots past
our feet. Ash cast
from the fire you are always
tending. Changing configurations
of stick and then flames, you
are blackening the undersides of each
twig, branch and stem dry
enough to fuel this heat.
The forest of red pines
sways next to us, gives you unending
supply of dead wood, though most
is standing still. I hear
the sound of splintering
as a small vertical trunk tears
under your weight.
You do not look at me
longer than a few seconds for fear
the fire will not go as planned.
You told me to view
your eyes as razorblades
and ice. I have heard this
before, maybe in a song, maybe
in a memory of an echo
in a cathedral or canopy. But this
is what I remember of you
making fire. Around us,
there is a rim of heat
I step out of. Grief, wanting
to be music, calls from
the instrument of the flesh, a ripple
from inside us, a call
from the caverns of the stomach
black as your silhouette
with your back to me, a body
blocking the firelight. Black as
your eyes closed, where
to never again have to
see that shade, you will become
so many songs.
*Photo courtesy torley.