i am going to tell you some things. an
ocotillo blooms. we sit in dust.
the mesh of the net puts grid-lines
on your cheeks, so i can chart the
tears as they glide down your chin. i
wish i could wash them back like a
tide, but i can only ask you to listen,
to hear me like a scattering of gulls.
you have all my attention. i shiver
despite the heat of this orange grove. we
tremble on the ancient pebbles. in
my fear you die
and i cannot but
now i cradle you
we rock on this
pinal schist tide
our sobs break
as ocean foam
but this time, i am going to tell you
something, this time i hold your face
up to mine, i look into your eyes, it
will be okay, this time, you will be
okay; i can see you curl
into the den of your mind. into
hibernation. when
your pupils ice over
i am overcome, i collapse.
like you i
cannot se
e how to
move out
of the tre
es un til
you es tu
ary salte
d ry fled
g ed b ir
d cr oak
no, but this time, i build a fire—this time you won't freeze in the heat
of the grove. . this time i cut down the oranges, stack them. i rake
duff and leaves. i arrange the pyre, gargantuan. i strike
the flint with steely knuckles—i chip, i grind, i spark! the faint
fire flits, brews into a floundering smoke, it wafts into a
sparking fiend. the whole cascades into a citron blaze
a tidal heat. the grove is orange now,
a peel of juicy flame.