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