call me I was looking at a car on fire
Schuyler Mitchell

call it fiction then lean in and give 
me the sweetness of your breath, and
I will unfold with the crimson that
was once mine before, in the days when
looking meant finding and everything fell
at a dizzying pace, arraying, we are slower now, but
a kaleidoscope nonetheless, like when I was in your
car watching the honey sun dripping 
on the brittle hillside outside, just thinking about
fire, and how I’ve caught it again, with you, so

call me affective dismemberment, call
me lily of the valley, uncanny, because
I was focused on your hands all along, I
was begging the priest in the cupboard for the
looking glass, then planting butterflies
at the base of your spine, the fizzle of
a tablet dissolving into absinthe, absence, be
careful, because I could see us billowing for miles, ripples
on the scorched highway, each taillight a
firefly, each headlight lightning on your tongue, as

calloused palms sweep, fronds find me
meandering, tracing each iridescent freckle
in the evening hum, it was easy when the city still
washed us in sound, easy when I didn’t know how to
look in garbage cans, in gum stains, before my
attention was captured by nickels flattened on the
asphalt, birds outside the window, the seam of your red
cardigan, yes, and you know when it is quiet I think 
one person might be enough, we’re dropping the match on the
firewood this time, but hurry, I’m still waiting for the rain

​