Fanning a fire

Cold, I step down from the porch,

the mist, heavy as the years -

those bleak maggots that gnaw the bones

while the flesh, jester organ, remains free from the stains

Unless you count the loss

of elasticity or the wrinkles

that stand in the place of my childhood.

The axe, blunt as an adolescent cock,

bludgeons wood

into thin strips for the ritual

of newspaper, layered kindling

and matches.

She’s been gone 3 hours on the road that winds

between rolling green breasts the cows

wander in the morning mist, filling their udder

for our milk.

I pretend a calm by lighting the fire -

sit reading the same few words of a novel while

my mind twinkles with thoughts -

twisted metal,

broken bones and immobile heart

for the evening headline.

I wander the empty house, growing

to hate her

and my journey into fear, the hate

a camouflage greater

than any chameleon trick.

The phone rings -

she’s landed safe.

I feel damned distant

as if the imagined

has opened and emptied the contents

of the present.