Masked by Sandstorms

Masked by Sandstorms

(…a darkness which may be felt.” Exodus 10:21b)

Every time I’m disconnected the lights go out.
Why do I sit in the dark, afraid that love has faded?
Why is it heavier than memory or the last syllable
of conversation?

You’ll tell me it’s all in my imagination. You’ll say
“you’re just fine, light a few candles this time.”
The wicks are dry, the candles are stored in the
junk drawer, the floods are high, the sun is masked by
sandstorms in the heat. I

Haven’t heard a word since the last time we talked,
haven’t seen your smile, cannot find the chalk-lines
that spelled my name on the driveway in pastel.

I know I fear the storm before the clouds ever form
below my feet and over the dead end of the street where
the water pools, where the mud pulls the wettened sand
infertile and the roses lose their petals.

You’ll tell me it’s all in my mind. You’ll say,
“You’ve overreacted again, turn the breakers back on.”
The breeze is naming you, the fruit trees don’t need to explain,
your fantasies have forsaken you, the darkness is
only the desert misapplied.

I’ve memorized every word. I chant them back to myself.
I’ve lost the rhythm though; I’ve forgotten the movement that
blazes lonely trails through midnight forests. I only remember
the ones I once knew when

The light was open, and I last saw your face.