STANDING ON THE LAWN OUTSIDE OF YOUR HOUSE WITH A MATCH AND A GALLON OF GASOLINE
This morning in
the cupboard I found
your last
quarter-inch of whiskey settled amber
in the mason jar
same burn on the horizon
the last indian
summer you sat naked
at the kitchen
table carving the nectarines
free from their
stones
When the cold
math of winter arrived early
that year I
thought the first fist you seamed into
my cheekbone was
to get to the proof,
to the pit of
the marriage
You asked if somewhere we find the itch
of the lumber do we find compassion
for the ax-blade that splits it—
I used to lie
down inside my own stitches
and let the
dawn-light farm their black to noon,
now I run like a
ragged dog over
the tight bow of
their edges: it doesn’t
make any
difference what angle I work
my heart against
them,
I still don’t
know what kind of woman
I am. But as the flame nears the fingers
that trust the
match, as close as the skin
can stand it to
singe, I call this the nerve
to find out—
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