sleeping coals.

I assembled them, arranged them in our stone ring
before the sun was off work, before he was fading
donning his pajamas
while he was still up watching the 6o'clock news, I was
making charcoal patterns, flowers, squares,
stars and hearts, preparing for the sun to yawn
nod off and leave us to our living
My hands, powdered and gloved in coaldust,
are a testament to the way I want to
invigorate you with my drowsy dollface
and the midnight fire reflecting from my eyes.

You're the type of person I dream about in history class,
when everything seems laid out like a doctor's diagnosis: you're picturesque
despite your halfjoking hopelessly sucked-under pickup lines:
'let's count shoulders.'
and who knows what my crushsymptoms
really mean. You float in my head, surreal.
What proof that you ever existed
what evidence to make us solid, would
outline itself on this paper? I can't
show you the animal kingdom, the wolves,
butterflies, and ants that pester me when
she mentions your name.

I am the one who can catalogue your
sighs. I can order your
passions. And regardless of what
adolescence screams at us: the man inside you
raises a brass fist,
untarnished, transcending time.

they weren't tears but they ripped through me
when heaven let go and this is what the mailman
witnessed this morning when he delivered three bills,
a newspaper, and nothing from you:

there is
a running-mascara puddle around a stonering
of sleeping coals arranged in a perfect circle,
or as close as she could get.

                                             


                                              Coals waiting for a wildfire day,
                                              pining.