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the firepit was dug, and it shone
intensely white and ephemeral,
and I, thinking it would endure
as sustenance, or life itself,
knew not what she thought, nor
did I think such a thing unknowable,
but I have seldom been as wrong

I survived as ashes survive,
and she has gone to burn in other places,
as meteoric as my memory,
and I suppose it also wrong to hope
that someday I could be consumed again,
and knowing this desire, I stand
chin out and cheek turned,
ashamed in my folded and sheathed heart