Roaring

by Fran Berkman

Forgot which side my center is on.
Brief encounter but now it's gone.
Flickering stars are spies in the sky,
blinking each time you tell yourself a lie.
My stomach hasn't been the same
since the last time it rained.
I ran toward your bungalow.
Crouched, thinking, below the window.
I put all my faith in glass.
Clearly misplaced it, my gravity
my space suit, my grapefruit.
My mistress mistrusts me this month.
January crispness to the air.
Gathering kindling during the gloaming.
Roaming but not too far from home.
I grow lonely; I fly a drone.
In the crisp, cool air I strike a match.
Roaring, crackling—my waning warmth,
my attempt to hold it together.
Seven conversations about the weather
all end the same way,
roaring on until they fade.