the last time i saw you

 

 

 

Centralia

            “Warning: Underground Mine Fire.  Ground is prone to sudden collapse.”

                                                                                                            -for Pasquale DeCusatis

April again, sky low and silver

as a handful of quarters.  Decaying leaves.

Forsythia in bloom and the squelch

of muddy grass perforated by high-heeled shoes. 

I’ve come to the grave in crooked lipstick and earnest

beige stockings, plastic-wrapped flowers clenched.

It’s easy to miss if you don’t know how to find it: back up

against the statue of Saint Christopher, take ten paces

toward the tree that resembles a bent man,

…nine…ten,    look down.

Mine fires fifty yards underground suck on the graves—

rows of sunken cheeks— town holding its breath.

Trans-illuminated smoke rises from gashes in the skin of soil.

I drop small prayers scrawled on airline napkins into the pit—

How far I’ve come

How long it’s been

Since the last time I saw you and we spoke in Italian

How then I knew you knew that would be the last time