Cole Weiss

Phoenix

I missed sunset.
I keep missing it. I keep getting in bed at three,
The blinds have been closed for days. I think
It’s eight or nine when I stumble into the bathroom
Grip the sink with freezing hands
I don’t look in the mirror right away.
I brush my teeth and spit down the drain. I taste
Blood and then metallic water. Fine, I’ll look.
He has dark circles under his eyes and a loose jaw,
Drowsy. He strips off his t-shirt,
Puts the medicine all over his skin. I think of
The first time, in my old apartment,
The scent of alcohol that I still haven’t learned
Not to breathe in too hard, and how excited
He was, eyes wet and bright, heart pounding
Like it had something to say on the matter. The bottle
Is nearly empty. It starts raining. I remember
How I pictured myself a phoenix– Burned to ash,
A heap of feathers, charred clothing,
stale makeup, Bitter words.
Then he would emerge, young and sparkly
With the sense of the cycle looming
But holding no fear. The fire
Had been smothered
By two hands and an ocean.