A fire-beaten trail is followed
Under the Northeastern Oregon sun,
Outlining the peaks and river valleys
Like your right hand on my chest.
Down your index finger,
Through the charred pines,
We switchback onto your thumb.
Up and over shaded boulders,
We reach a lake reflecting the surrounding mountains.
It’s long and clear,
With waves windpeaked and sheer,
That reflect our evening firelight.
The greengrey trees hum
With excited insects
While patient boulders sit squat
On dewy earth.
Your amber mirrors look at me,
And your tongue falls so precisely.
I stumble to you across uneven ground,
Drunk on your sober gaze.
We dance and sing with nightbirds and crickets,
Then fall asleep to windsung lullaby.
I wake and try to find your hand
My map, but only find I’m lost.
Your absence
Feels loud in moonlight.
With no hand to guide me home,
I stay up there, among the waves, and breathe in the pine air
Alone.
My Name Is Con 