The Opposite
Everything has to burn.
My mom first, her turkey casserole,
a kiss, a Viking pyre.
My lover next, the Asian
with the pouch of meth,
body simple and smooth.
She was a tiny horse that rode
me as her husband walked
up the drive.
I can still smell her smoke
on my clothes.
Feel the weight of her thighs
as she drove into me.
That very moment, warm
touches warm. Heat becomes flame.Like the memory
of my friend Jay.
That week, I stayed
with his family somewhere
in the wilds of PA.
I can't remember where.
The details unravel
like the porn movie we tried
to pry out of the Beta Max,
the butterknife nicking
the black tape vein unrepairable.The woods around his apartment
complex were long, calm hands,
walking through them every day.
Knowing each branch, each elm
as it crests the hills.
His friends laughing through crooked
teeth as we swam in the creek.
The summer before things
stopped making sense.
Before I fall for the girl two houses down,
before the boy down the street bloodies
my nose flat, pushes the red blossom
of my face in the snow—
the opposite of burning.
