“…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.