smoke and snow

Smoke and Snow

Who told anybody they couldn't shoot their weapons?

They tapped their spoons on the torched sugar crust to crack it.

I remembered the days right after graduation, when

explosions of smoke and guts, body parts and violet insides

nervously waved their wobbling fingers over the top of

melodic intonation therapy to aid in language recovery.

On the cusp of an even broader appreciation

in a little pit with a shimmering curtain,

skin lit by the fragmented flashing of a disco ball,

her soul was very visible, and right then

I miss her. I miss our mutual dreams.

Her voice was raw and hard; she thrust it at

a small ceramic cup holding a handful of dull crayons

at night, singing lullabies and pop songs

like there were many earths. Many suns.

Her blood wouldn't suffer the pain of struggling to sing

to take down a dead tree in my mother's front yard.

Returning to the music of the pattern

like me, this valley accepts its flaws.

The river leads to the lake; the river is the arms and legs of

the same day, parting ways in front of sliding doors.