The fingers of fire curled around the car,
like hands cupping something fragile.
Her own gripped the steering wheel,
white from fear rather than heat.
She recalled once, while waiting for her latte,
glimpsing a newspaper still neatly folded
on its shelf that people, in some country
both irrelevant and inconceivable to herself,
were setting themselves on fire in protest.
Her lips were salty with sweat and blood,
and a roar swelled in her brain in time
with the heat that tugged at her woolen slacks
and polyblend sweater.
Even through the concussive mud,
the fire was beautiful; twisting into
buttressed cathedral arches outside
the spidery, starred windshield.
A very small, very reluctant part of her
thought she could now understand,
that she might now appreciate,
the cleansing clarity of fire.
The calico curtains of heat finally faded
behind the dark, oily smoke, and she knew
she had misunderstood the nature
of burning all along.
There is something here.
Something sad and something quiet.
That rolls into the city
On the storms.
It rides the cold front south
Dipping to earth on icy rain.
Slithering into the smoke
Of cigarettes burned to the filter.
A deep inhale
And it enters my lungs
Before becoming an
Unwelcome guest in my heart
Sometimes I fear
That the weight of
The world will crush me
My bones will be powdered
Fine enough for porcelain
And baked by the sun
My very being,
Stretched thinner than
The fabric of the universe,
Is punctured by each
Leaving my skin speckled
With each still healing sadness
That unlike Atlas
My trembling arms
Will give and send the globe
Reeling from my shoulders
And rolling across my back
Smoothing the hunch
From years of hefty burden
one old...one new
Murder in Three Parts
My heart jackhammers my ribs
pounding away at the
not quite bone of my sternum
with no regard for my lungs
or the other bits of viscera
that swell and subside in a similar tempo.
But, I understand it’s fear
it’s clamoring anxiety,
wanting to occupy any place
in space and time but here.
Behind us, the house is burning.
Lapping at the evidence
of 16 years and combing
hot fingers down the still,
golden backs of two dead dogs
and the dying family,
held to their beds in
a drugged sleep.
By now, their own hearts
should have stopped their clamouring.
The lungs wilting to stillness in the heat.
How the fire started
is hard to say.
Whether it was the match,
or the long dry summer,
or even the ancient pine floors.
Regardless, the roof
caves in and firetruck
wheels the corner, hoses
already half unfurled.
My heart slows, and
begins the giddy beat of freedom.
a few nights ago i was startled awake
by silence seeping through the cracks in
your windows and the cold
shivers it sent down my back
it smothers the room
and playfully bats aside
the casual drone of
your fan like an insect
and searches the corners of darkness
for other mischief
i am still and watch you sleep
and my heart hammers with fear
at the conspicious absence of noise
but now - the hush is here
settling contentedly at the foot
of your bed kneading tiny paws
and no amount of wishing will
summon the sounds of the
streets to dislodge it
the silence blinks at me slowly
as i press close to you
curling small fingers around your arm
my face pressed to your shoulder
and i brace myself
for the aftermath of our catastrophe
and the taciturnity of the moment purrs
and stretches out on its back
begging me to scratch its belly like an old friend
It's time to play the "How much Ativan does it take until Blue is unconscious?" game!!! So far...3mg and it's been an hour with no real effect...I would really like to sleep through the pain