2.8.15
I can't now enter the sensation
of loving you, but know it was all-consuming.
Towards spring, there was almost a hate to it.
There are many steps I do not
remember. But some: the October
we made a sort of bed on your floor
with your parents' cotton blankets
it became so hot in the small room some nights
we slept with the window open.
And it was October!
In Connecticut!
I imagine you never think about this.
I imagine you've written over the story
and I wonder at it, your functioning,
your whole mechanism.
Outside of time I remember your hands
inside me, the room in flames.
Literally:
a pile of your shirts fell into a candle one winter.
We didn't notice until
I coughed on the smoke.
