Edges

I. Bellows

i did not have a fireplace
growing up, and the sound of
bellows was foreign to me. even
the word, i couldn't grasp the
first time i heard it: soft, right off,
like faint praise that colors
rosy cheeks, young. trimmed fingernails
tapping gently against a tabletop of
cherry.

then i hear the war cry
of the Romans.

the flames it should be breathing onto didn't
exist in a hearth. the flames,
electric blue ones turning to the
deep blue of the sea (of the moment between
turning off the lights and seeing the edge
of my bed again), because more
and more is being taken in, less and
less for me to breathe,
bounced all around me, charring
my silken hair, my gauzy stare,
the words that i didn't know how
to say.

II. Phoenix

they said it was a 7.8, but
really it was an 8.2. it came
at eighteen minutes before four.
everyone was asleep.

unlike hurricanes, we don't
name our earthquakes. a simple number,
one decimal point, must suffice

for our imagination of the dirges, that
hollow wail of dirges that
still ring out every July, in the

dampness of the night, where the paper
money will stick to your fingers as
you try to lay them down on the
sidewalk. they sometimes refuse to
be lit.

my city, flattened. and phoenix
is not the right title, for it
did not fly out of a conflagration:
it sank to its knees, then
laid down before it crawled up again.

phoenix is not the right title, for
it is Egyptian, and my city floundered
but was never Egyptian. having stood up
after an 8.2, it shouldn't
be worn down by a poor
translation, the imprecision small
but critical. when i think
phoenix, i think of the mountain
in my city that remains standing.

III. Guitar

the old guitar lies in front of
the fireplace, still without a fire.
it is out of tune, waiting for
your touch, to sing again.

it has no name, just wood that
keeps walking towards cracks, disintegration, a
neck that is bent, shiny metal
worn away.

it is waiting for you, where we
once made love, entwined in words.