Someday compassion would demand



I set myself free of my desire to recreate



my father, indulge in my mother’s losses,



strangle lovers with words, forcing them



to confess for me and take the blame.



Today was that day: I tossed them, sheet



by sheet on the patio and gathered them



into a pyre. I wanted to let them go



in a blaze, tiny white dwarfs imploding



beside the azaleas and ficus bushes,



let them crackle, burst like winged seeds,



let them smolder into gossamer embers—



a thousand gray butterflies in the wind.



Today was that day, but it rained, kept



raining. Instead of fire, water—drops



knocking on doors, wetting windows



into mirrors reflecting me in the oaks.



The garden walls and stones swelling



into ghostlier shades of themselves,



the wind chimes giggling in the storm,



a coffee cup left overflowing with rain.



Instead of burning, my pages turned



into water lilies floating over puddles,



then tiny white cliffs as the sun set,



finally drying all night under the moon



into papier-mâché souvenirs. Today



the rain would not let their lives burn.





