Arson muse, the jolts died with you.
The spark was yours to light,
no glint. Your chest
melting tar. Cough black, wince.
I hear movements —
a train quick flapping
wings against my ear.
The whistle is not so long off.
In reverie, I see flattened pennies,
a new scene.
Drifting, blindly
on warm blacktop,
inside furnace closets,
heat waves, red hair.
Awake: fully
clothed, fully shoed
remembering instantly you
are ignition, implosion.
boiled chicken.
I am begging. Push away
your words
and crooked teeth.
I wonder
where that train is now.
Somewhere cool and coastal,
where the fog only
looks like smoke.
Somewhere so wrong
to spread your ashes.
Jamie Jones is a student in the MA Creative Writing program at Eastern Michigan University. After she finishes her degree, she plans to go on to get an MFA and eventually teach creative writing. She is the poetry editor for Dogzplot magazine, and her own poetry has appeared or is upcoming in Cellar Roots, The 50/50, and Prick of the Spindle. She is the author of 3 chapbooks, all currently unpublished.