Fire

My dreams suffer

           at the hands of my fingers

When I reach

          to touch her cheek or

          pull her close

When I bend

         my index finger and thumb

         to button a onesie

When I raise

         my hand to ward off or

         shield or attack

I wake

         to fire slow

         to smolder and slower

To accept

         the thickening the knotting and

         the unpredictable but eventual

         thief in the night.

Leaves

Before it became a law not to, leaves

were set ablaze curbside, lining the street

like the burning funeral pyres along 

Mother Ganges.

I Schwinned to each and dismounted as if

I wore a badge. Abracadabra-style,

I waved the swirls to approach or disperse.

The acrid smoke always seemed to obey.

Before, my brothers and I would create a giant

pile of yellow and red and orange and leap

heroically for lofted footballs and make vicious

tackles that led, inevitably, to the scratchy dead

shoved down shirts, stem-poked eyes, and split lips.

After, I’d lie in the deflated leaf bed and stare

up at the midwestern sky through tree branches

that looked like skinny, naked old men. Clouds

considered me but kept moving.

Fork taps on the kitchen window summoned

me to dinner and in answer to my

mother’s question I would always answer,

“Nothing.”