(“your anger,” he told me once, “your anger is contained. she thinks you’re a forest fire. your father thinks you’re candlelight waxing with the moon-“)

he crumples with it. for us, our fury and our love are equal—
i used to think love the wax,
but he taught it as a quid pro quo.
men run from forest fires,
you admire sunsets,
you will let me go still burning
and spread my scent until we are choking on it;
it is fire all the same.
gas, spark, smoke:
burn burn burn.

he crumples with it. for us, i watch silently,
as he takes my forest and my campfire
wax and light
burn burn burn
in his palms
to cry.

(-he does not say what he thinks.)