Missing the Night of the Fire

by Amy Josuweit

I wanted to see my reflection in the mesh
of the tent’s doorway.
Instead, I zipped it open and crawled inside, to eat.
Eat and blanket my blisters.
When I sleep, I awaken stone -
loss of time so palpable, unforgiving.
I’ve missed the fire.

The creatures that surround me cause only pain,
remorse at the loss
while instilling a new, red blaze beneath my skin.
These bugs bite.
I wish I could cry.

Mark my eyes red like my skin and the fire…
carve a way to the blaze
I so longingly crave.

This island of air, pillows, and smudges binds my limbs,
keeps hold with sleep and wrapping folds:
a lover’s embrace that greedily pulls my heart
from the tribe.
My soul, a withered mess,
dried brambles that roll on,
purpose only to dance in the flames…
caught by small, pointless rocks.
Tarried by fearful nothings.
One night – loss in an ocean of days,
but mourned forever in the tent’s mesh reflection.
The reflection I can’t quite find.
Even from the tall of this mountain.

© 2012 by Amy Josuweit