ash

When we broke, I called myself a mosaic,
poured venom into claret acrylic
to craft a new shade of revenge.  I called
myself born again but found myself crying
at stoplights, in the shower, in the bathroom
at work under the pretense of pissing.
I found myself ordering Chinese food
for two, cradling your pillow, wearing your clothes
beneath my own.  How desperate I was
for your wound: your clumsy fingers,
your mute stare during arguments, your back
to me when I craved conversation.

But when we were match and kindling, I knew
the cinnamon taste of fire.  You knew when
to be newspaper, when to bear water.  I became
limber beneath your ministrations, thought of names
for children not yet born, began to believe
forever was coming true.  Finally, it became clear –
the Jungian analysis of my dreams;
your almond-shaped mouth a prequel to arsenic;
the breaking point of paper before it bursts into flame.

Fact is cloaked in fantasy, I tell my barren womb,
remembering childhood, fireflies, and dusk,
a bevy of green lights, how I failed to grasp
the threat of entombment.  Maybe next time,
I sigh, and start over, though I find myself longing
for your mason jar mouth, glass walls, suffocation.