I have grown cynical. Not cyclical
though that too: moving from relationship
to relationship, like my mom posting
a video of the sun on the lake.

Something about this moment feels braided
with belief systems. Mango pits, flowers
on flat horizons. Birds. Each star is a
pin prick stitched with cold light and breath. Tonight

I realized I’d rather freeze to death than
burn. Like lying down for a nap that ends
not being a nap. Am I wrong? Besides,
I don’t see it as a passionate door

to exit through anyway. Just the flames.
So orange and red and what they do to us.


Maggie Graber