Stoking the Fire

The liar. 

Nightfall.

Far from church. Far from the hill where the dead go to die.

Far from shoes. 

And miles to go.

Miles to go.

Do you remember the carpenter who so carefully said thank you when the class ended and urged you to be more patient with the younger ones?

Do you remember drinking brandy at 3 a.m., stoking the fire, writing poems while ghosts gathered, egging you on?

Do you remember how it feels to cut down trees. Do you remember when the blind horse had eyes still.

How her shoulders move when she lifts her shirt.

How we lie, and push through lies to truth, and through truth to what never changes, and there rest, like rangers with no clear adversary or home to go back to.

How she rights something in my thinking by upending assumptions too long held about what the body does and why. Do you remember walking in darkness where the river swelled beneath towering pines.

Do you remember kissing. Do you remember swallowing. Do you remember lying awake unable to sleep because grief had turned your bedroom into a torture chamber.

Is your heart ruined. Is your soul a ruins.