The room is empty
as scars without stories when Ben wakes.
It is a knocked about box
made of soot, and he tries again to swallow, as
if his lips aren’t burned away, as if in prayer.
Flag
That first
date. Ben saw her auburn hair illuminate
color each time she lit a match,
smiled when she smiled, stared at his feet
when she let the match burn to her fingertips.
Infatuation
Children were
drawn to her in the way sunlight seems drawn to still water. He watched,
and was drawn, too.
Measurements
When Ben spoke to
her, she studied him so closely. He
might have been in a hog pen,
not a man with cold, meaty hands in his pockets.
Hello
Lonely Ben. The dark lady. Friend of a friend, and then more. This dark lady who will
talk to him. And listen, mouth slightly open.
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