It started with a bobby pin soaked in the blue light
of late-night television. It was so lonely on the slate
carpet under the ceiling fan. I added a keyless

keyring and two translucent purple dice. Something
was kindling then, but it wasn’t quite whole. I ran
into the next room and grabbed a washcloth to collect

water puddled in the shower. To the machine it went. Then
I added ground sage, a fleck of deodorant, the fuzz
from your corner of the bed. It was more than light

moving through the maze now. I sang Seaweed’s
Spanaway in its entirety into the mix and pulled
the last two years of sunlight off the faded cover of your

copy of Ariel. The recipe was almost complete. I believed
in it enough to treat it like a pyre, but there was no
burning, only the constant hum of June bugs and the way

my skin felt when they hooked across it. So I blew this
kiss. Right here. And the last note of night spun
off into new grey day and there was nothing

but how I remembered these things together, how I
spelled your name that last time like a secret only
the shadows could keep as they stretched with the dawn.