Prairie Fire

She was ten years younger,
and stars of hope still shone
in her eyes.
 
Her hair was a beautiful  
red, and her ivory skin
stretched over a slender
whisper-thin frame.
 
She saw in me,
a future, all that
was forsaken  
and stolen from her  
Mother, a solid, honest,
loyal man who would  
deliver and support forever.
 
But she did not know,  
she was too young,
the burned crust of  
my soul was unseeable  
through hopeful eyes,
I was refuse, drifting space  
junk that had gotten  
snagged onto her life.
 
I had drifted into  
town from Europe,
so drowned in sadness
from having to leave  
the seed of culture and  
wine, to the barren,  
frozen solid,
indian-blood soaked  
ground of Wyoming.
 
Where another  
woman had left me,
to be marooned into a
cold attic apartment,
in a brick building on
the Avenues.
 
We finally connected,
and swore each other
to the hot-lustful
alliance made naked  
in sweat-soaked sheets,
to love and live, with our  
lives bound by the dire hope
of desperate desire for  
connection.
 
It worked for awhile,
we made the attic warm  
with our bodies,
I sang to her, the songs
written for other Women,
with a smile instead of  
tears, hoping she would
see through the  
screaming hopelessness
that bore the stanzas into being.
 
She met my parents,
who could barely suppress
their horror, at the young girl,
who shared their scarred son’s
life, it must have taken all of
their restraint, to not call the
Police.  
 
My work took me away  
for days at a time,
I hoped for fidelity,
based on the smiles and embraces
gifted to me when I returned,
but her youth moved within her,
and it was soon apparent,
that I was a bad bet,
my age was no longer  
a positive influence,
I was just a plain
slave to my service,
and that my money,
could not stir her to remain,
while her dreams pressed her
into action.
 
I stood stupefied,
at the left-open door to  
the attic, some man’s
muddy footprints
showed me the the way,
tracked up the stairs,
across the light carpet,
into the bedroom,
where pulled out shelves,
left-behind clothes,  
and a broken mirror,
sang clearer than any  
note could, the pure ringing  
truth sang deafeningly off  
of the faded wallpaper,
I was alone, alone, alone.
 
I called frantically,  
to make sure she was alright,
and found out through  
her Mother, that she had  
moved in with some young
boy.
 
She would speak to me,
but only for a few minutes,
enough to confirm what was
already known.
 
I collapsed,
spending three days on  
my living room floor,
listening to Pachelbel’s
Canon, her favorite song,
one she had planned for the wedding,
she wanted with me,
until the notes bled together,
while I puked up tequila,
taken to dull the pounding
hammer-strikes to my heart.
 
It took a mantra,
of saying her name
a thousand times,
to exercise her fingerprint
from my heart,
I swept out the ashes,
of her presence,
along with all of the rest,
before I could sleep.
 
This happened in 1998,
in 1999, I returned to Germany,
never knowing what happened  
to her…..
until yesterday,
I saw her face in the book,
with a little blond daughter,
and a man that was not the
Father, swearing eternal faith.
 
I was frozen for a moment,
then clicked away,
dragged back to my reality,
the feelings of time
flooded back for a second,
I re-lived a year's pain in
five minutes, then looked  
around my house, grounded
myself back into the moment,
and listened, to the gorgeous
rain, fall into my heart,
and extinguish an old flame,
that could burn me no longer.