Gather the thin, fragile lies, slipping
from her lips, like dry twigs fallen
beneath low-lying branches.
Strike flint against the bone
of your bitterness. Set aflame
the recanted kindling and blow
hot breath across the splintered
wood, seasoned with mistrust.
Stoke it with your anger and watch the fire
burn steadily down to cold and dying embers.
Place the ashes on your head, smear
them across your lips, so you might
remember her kiss.
© Ami Mattison