“…where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far…we are learning to make fire.”*
- “Habitation,” Margaret Atwood

slowly, our failed attempts drift back to us
on breezes thick with unfurled smoke.

we gasp for the cold air that stings
our throats, and lay our ears to the earth.

the heartbeat hums through the dirt –
steady and slow, so we wrap our arms

around each other and exhale.

but we are learning to make fire,
to lift embers with our fingertips

from damp leaves, to tickle them
in our palms, and wish them away.

we watch them dance along twigs;
we weave our fingers together;
we whistle to the flecks and the sparks.

and they kiss – with innocence,
without hesitation.

the earth hums low

i.
she told me to listen to the silence;
count its beats, she said. my eyes slipped
closed but all i could hear were her chandelier
earrings swishing and her sticky fingers turning
the page of ave maria.

hear the music. feel the notes
within you as you breathe in
and out.

i would have rather felt his hand in mine.

ii.
the last time it rained, i tried to count the drops.
they hit the porch swing with such a force, i thought
a bird had flown into the windowpane again.

i licked my lips and drummed a finger
against my thigh.
one two three four, two two three four
three two three four.

before i counted a full measure, the rain stopped.

iii.
it was before sunrise, but after sunset
when i heard the thump thump.
so i curled a hand around your arm, and placed
the other on your heart.

i counted:
one and two and three and four,
and two and two and three and four and

you kissed my hair and whispered –
voice deep and raw:
go back to sleep.

but i waited until you snored, laid my head
to your chest, and listened for the metronome.

The day I turned nine, I hiked up
            my honeysuckle tutu, and raced
                        to find you –
            there, sprawled out on the hissing
asphalt driveway, with precise strokes of neon
            sidewalk chalk, you were writing the words
                        “I love you.”
            We dotted our names with lop-
                        sided stars and scribbled
stick-figured versions of ourselves years and years
            in the future. And when the first zig-
                        zagged bolt crossed the sky, we screamed
                                    and then laughed, loud
                        barking laughs at the heavy raindrops.

The night I turned twenty, I cried
            myself to sleep, and tucked the paper under
                        my crocheted blanket. With eyes
            closed, I counted the colors behind my lids –
                        three, four, a kaleidoscope.
Your name still appeared though
– inky, blurring into the foreground,
                        along with that childhood chalk.

she turned a shell over
in her palm, ran a finger
over the weathered pink lines.
he said once if you listen you can hear
the seagulls and the hiss of the waves
and the kissing foam.
but she had laughed – barked.
you’re such a sap, she said.
now she sat and the cold, wet
sand clung in clumps to her legs.
she cupped the shell in her hands
and waited for the song.

she opened her eyes slowly,
long feathered eyelashes beating
like hummingbirds. one.
blink. two. blink. three and –

a hand stretched out, grasping
at the ceiling, no… at the dust
that leapt through pale prisms of light.
she turned her head, buried her nose
into the pillow and inhaled musk.

but beyond the glass pane
her companion cooed, then retreated
further into the orange blossoms.

inside, she sniffed  and wriggled
then pressed a hand to her moist face.
and closed her eyes

We sit, cross-
legged on a patch
of sandpaper carpet,
and we wait. You stare
through me as my fingers
dance over
the stained tabletop.
But you let me think,
without interruption, or
interrogation.
Though somewhere,
beyond the screened-
in porch, your dog
barks at a lizard.
And I remember.
Why you called me.
Why there’s silence.

Now you know,
and now you moisten
your lips and blink three
times. But you never reach,
because she left you breathless,
because your chest heaved
in pain for months
on end.

I lower my eyes,
watch my ivory legs
as they fold out like
a crisp sheets. And I
kiss your curls. And
I leave, even though
the hook that punctures
my ribcage
will always
belong to you.

There’s a strand
of pearls, and it clings
to her little neck.
So she twirls
them free, around and
around her finger until
Mama slaps
her hand.

Mama’s tight lips
stretch across her
ashen face – wrinkles
and all. Baby, hush,
she tells the girl.
The priest’s gotta talk
now. We gotta say
goodbye soon.

And Mama presses
the clean, powder blue
Kleenex into her daughter’s
hand. But the girl
never cries.
She merely watches,
blinks her baby eyelashes,
while Daddy rests
in peace.

We almost had it, that
golden spider-web ending,
a halo hanging from dewy leaves.
You looked up and smiled at it, pointed,
marveled.

But it was me –
me who cut it down,
who reached up and yanked,
who watched the yarn unravel,
spiral,
fall.

It was my hand that scooped
damp twigs and dirt away,
and made a shallow grave,
and watched the halo flicker
and fade.

You stood, arms at your sides,
defenseless, or else hopeless
and watched my eulogy,
and saw my mud-stained face
cry, and did
nothing
at all.

He smelled like a fall evening –
                      the distinct mix of dusty leaves, hay, and candy apples
                                          combined with pumpkins and acorns.
So I let him take my hand, his fingers weaving in between mine,
                  the way the October stars gently twisted through the sky.
                                            And we stood and looked up.
For the longest time, there was silence save for the sound of
                  a seventy-year old’s clapping shoes as she strolled across the
                            dance floor, on her way to do-si-do with her husband.
Appalachian hills gleamed under the harvest moon, as he smiled,
                      asked if I would like to run through the corn maze with him.
I said yes, of course I would, and would he be able to keep up with
                     the six-year old sprinters who would beat us to the finish?
He laughed, and the clouds overhead dispersed, revealing only velvet atmosphere.
                                   We ran for minutes, tripping over our
shoelaces, occasionally being startled by the tractor toting happy families
                                        who were on hayrides together. But we made it
To the finish, where we collapsed on the cool dirt, grasping our sides and
                                         laughing as loud as we could.

We stood in the darkness, sharp air
                     piercing our windpipes, and rubbed
                     our hands together. Your eyes trailed across
the empty skyline, life fading from behind azure pupils.
I brushed back my hair, breathed – the white smoke
                     spiraling up 34th street and into our old bedroom,
                     over the paisley bedspread where she stretched.
Her gold curls laughed, bounced, and then stopped abruptly.
                     My hazel bewilderment met her manicured eyebrows.
                                           I knew.
                                          She realized.
So I moved toward her shadow, and she blinked. I reached
                     across her petite frame, and left the ring on our old
                     bedside table. But I took
                                           the flashlight,
                                           because I am still afraid of the dark.

She hadn’t packed yet, just wouldn’t, stamped a foot, flat-
out refused. Her fingers wound around blades of grass,
                     and she tugged, ripping them from the ground.
                     She’d take them with her, in a jar, so that the fireflies,
they’d have some food on the trip down south.
And as she crossed state lines, she shook the jam jar, and the
                     golden rim rattled along with the gravel roads.

But before she reached North Carolina, they were dead,
                    little fallen comrades, “I Spy” companions, and night-
lights. Now there was a Ramada, and a Hilton, and a scratchy blanket.
And she kicked it off and sat upright in bed and
                                          dripped with sweat, because it was July.
                                          The air conditioner rattled, spat out must, and Mama snored.

During the day, the suitcases opened their mouths, swallowed new belongings,
                     an alligator t-shirt for her,
                     a neon yellow sundress for Mama,
                     socks and flip-flops and toothbrushes and underwear to replace
what was left behind in their hurried packing.

Mama didn’t cry herself to sleep anymore.
                     She just drove and drove, and her eyes stayed dry,
                     and her arms weren’t black and purple,
because there was no more screaming, and no more sirens–
just singing.

“It’ll be all right, baby.”
“It’ll be all right.”

Even though they were dead, the fireflies sang from the hotel balconies,
                     and the greasy fast-food chains,
                     and the new apartment in Florida where Daddy could never go.

She watched as
starlight tangoed with
earl gray dawn, and
pink cotton clouds
dripped
down the horizon line.
The crickets trembled,
kissed the dewy blades
of grass, then
departed, underground, or
into the oak trees.
And she folded her bare
knees toward her chest,
clutched them
tightly while a sun-
flower scented breeze
tickled the hairs on her arm.
The pale moon faded
into azure morning and
each constellation
evaporated into
wispy white clouds.
So she gathered her
belongings, but left
the letter –
it’s buried there,
beneath the sprawling
autumn foliage,
waiting
for you to resurrect it.

I wish I could hold
your hand,
but instead, I am
forced to cling to
the pale orange glow of
a dying
candle, and watch
as memories
fall
between
my fingertips.

You spend the night
sipping chai tea
in front of
our bubbling fireplace,
while I gather my patch-
work romanticism,
frame our
futures, then tuck them
into the ashes.

I’ll leave by morning,
while you snore
quietly. I’ll step
into
brown leather boots,
as the gray dawn
makes me catch
my breath.

But the wax will
drip, will
tickle the legs
of your antique
coffee table,
and you’ll
miss me.

He yawned and I
yearned to cradle him,
to kiss his face, but he fell
asleep on my grandmother’s
crocheted afghan.
So I rolled onto my back,
and a string unraveled,
lassoed the new moon and pulled
the stars down, sprinkling
them across my lap, while some fell
into the black lake.
I wanted to dip my pale toes into
the water, feel the ice tango through
my empty veins.

But I stayed, watching as
bruised skies healed into warm
rays of orange, embracing
the horizon. And I turned
on my side to welcome you,
to whisper We made it. Your eyes
followed my mouth, silently agreed,
but kept their distance, and our palms
never touched.

I stretched my arm
over your chest, curled
my fingers around your bicep
as you watched fireflies
flit across the tent.
Breathing even, you explained the science of
the little black bugs,
how they got those green lamps.
I watched the moonlight kiss your
forehead, and reached my hand to stroke
your curls.
Midnight rain tapped against the tent,
and lulled me into brightly lit worlds where you
whispered romance in my ear,
touched my forehead,
told me that you
loved me and would
never let
me leave.
When I awoke,
the moon was gone,
but the rain was not.
And in the darkness,
I heard the sharp
intake of your snores,
felt your arms twitch in dreams
I would never know.

We were rebels,
swinging as
high
as we could in our
fluorescently floral
print dresses while
our mothers sipped
black coffee.
And we giggled and
kicked the tufts of
dandelions and spun
under ribbons of
watercolor sky.
We wished on stars
long before we even knew
their names, and
grasped the air wildly,
watching fireflies
wriggle around in
our palms.
And we pinky-
swore we would
never grow up,
or turn into our mothers,
or worry about the
little things, but
inevitably
our ring fingers acquired
diamonds, and bassinets
congregated in the corners
of our master suites. So
we broke
our promises,
but never our vows.
And our children
swing now from
white picket
porches into
endless horizons.

It was her grandmother’s,
on her step-mother’s side,
not really a relative at all.
A hideous thing, it was,
crudely constructed yards
of yellowing ivory, with
giant creampuff shoulders
and a scratchy hemline.
The bodice was decorated,
sprinkled with dull gems,
crusty pearls.
The veil was, by far,
the worst offender.
A gauze with blotchy
brown stains, misshapen
holes, gnawed by rats.
She bit her lip as her step-
mother wrinkled her brow,
poking at the skirt, the train,
hoping it would burst like an
odd bubble or
mushroom at
any moment.

lately, lately, lately,
I’ve learned life is too
short, even for the most
invincible of us.

we live in hospitals we construct
for ourselves, shelves stocked high
with anxieties, and
finances, and
pills for every kind of high
or low.

and we live this way–
chained to our bedsides,
keys in our pockets, crying
out for doctors
and saviors.

and we die this way–
holding onto something that we
thought, we constructed to look
like hope.

except we know it is just
a scribbled picture, just a
crayon creation of a
gruesome monster, a thing waiting

to grab us, with fierce
blue claws, and pull us
under by our
fluorescently lit halos.

i was wrenched from a bed
that was not my own to begin with.
into the sunlight, they dragged me,
hands yanking at my long hair.
i clutched my body.
jaw set, i silently vowed not to cry, to take it
like a woman should – to look them in the eye,
to stand unashamedly in front of my neighbors,
my mother, and my sisters. to stand in front of the town,
and face the inevitable.

the Pharisees threw me to the ground, gave a swift kick
to my side – gentle, compared with what would come.
the women, eyes glossed with icy detest, spat in my face.
so the ***** has been caught, they hissed.
But i refused to give them the satisfaction.
i wouldn’t close my eyes during it.
couldn’t.
Jesus, they barked, we caught her sleeping
with a man she doesn’t belong to.
you know what to do.
the little children and the rabbi and the mothers
and the sons, they felt the ground
for smooth, heavy rocks.

i bowed my head slightly, as fingers trembled over
new, prune-colored bruises
on my ribs, my stomach.
i unlocked my knees and lifted my chin,
met his eyes.
he paused for a moment, nodded his head slowly.
If you are without sin, please, cast the first stone.
i bit my lip, waited and watched,
squinting in the sunrise.
the Pharisees grumbled, the townspeople eyed me, but said
nothing, until they left, one
by one.

that Jesus, they mumbled,
He’s always finding loopholes.

daffodils sprinkle their magic
fairy dust along tufts of whispering bluegrass.
her laugh skips across the rocky driveway,
as she watches her best friend balance on a skateboard.
panting spotted dogs lap cool water from their
brightly colored bowls as they lounge on the wrap-around porch.
next-door-neighbors splash into their pools, the scent of
grilled hotdogs and charred hamburgers wafting across the
aquamarine sky. children with floaties splash at their
parents, tiny mouths bursting into sun-soaked smiles.
sunscreen-toting mothers drag beach towels embroidered with
superheroes and princesses to dry off their young ones.
warm-bodied babies cry on bouncing knees as storm clouds
gather across the stainless steel skies. little girls squeal and
parents scoop their plates filled with food into the house, as
lightning sings in the afternoon.