I fell in love with Abednego.
He breathed the colors of flames
into my hair
when he was stoned
and spent hours attempting to separate
the red and gold
with his fingers.
Silly boy was only stained with oranges
and once the autumn pigment
shamed me too much to look at,
I turned the furnace up seven times,
and threw him in.
I don't burn bridges.
I am the gasoline
who makes friends with souls
who carry matches in their pockets.
We drank poison in the name of tea,
made love in the name of friendship.
I'd forgive your shut-eyed ignorance
through your wind-slaughtered voice
as the moans break
on your ash,
kindled coldly with the loving snow.
But my shut-eyed ignorance offers
no response, no reply.
Water of a god—less
No god would rain on this.
Kisses of your singed frame,
now falling gray and silent
by discrete rejection
that would eat the flesh
over our snowing faces.
The snow falling on Abednego's grave
scares me as it buries and compresses
the body that isn't there.
They will mourn, saying he sleeps
in the motherly arms of fate,
but it is the flickering charcoal pride that ate
Abednego and I.