the rasp of woodsmoke

Location

Everywhere I go is somewhere I’ve been 
In your mouth, the ridges of molars scraping 
Against my tongue, dry like sandpaper at the 
Thought of the dust of your freckles under 
The swirled pattern of my fingertips, interrupted 
By my fifth grade foolishness, not understanding 
Fear of magic we made up, my memory a 
Disjointed slash, the knife I laugh off when puckered 
Scars come up every once in a while

The room is suddenly the red and gold and orange of 
You and I’m in the middle, a shadow of cool blue and 
Lines of charcoal, confined and trying not to smudge as 
You are a nauseating, heady sweet of hydrangeas 
And mown lawns and now you aren’t the sun setting salt 
And ripples on fire but the invitation of bending pines 
Over a mat of yellowed grass with tufts of thistles 
Reminding me that once I was not afraid of crickets and 
I used to sing with them in the sticky heat of dogwood summers

You’re asleep on the couch now because there’s 
Something uninviting in the dust motes that have 
Settled on your pillow cases, like some reminder that 
We don’t wake up there anymore, that my eyes aren’t 
Crusted over and crinkled at the corners when your 
Yawn ghosts over the pins and needles in my arm, 
You can’t shake out the sheets and the feeling that 
The bed we both chipped in for is unfamiliar without 
Chewed nailbeds poking at your half-hearted dimples just 
Daring you not to smile

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