Sun sets and she is redness–
the angry welt of a mosquito, or a fist

shorthand for the violence of late
summer, dusk honeyed in stings,

sweetened.

There is a ghost simmering on the stove,
pilot flames turned low.

She has seasoned it sparingly,
afraid, has turned on all the lights–

kitchen fluorescence spilling
onto blue grass,

hungry dog panting
after the night.

It storms all night, water breaking
against siding and branches.

She dreams tropical,
jeweled fruits and smoke,

ghost taking on tempest,
howling all the way to the rocks.

Morning buzzes slowly–
sweeping, unsettled dawn.

She is stillness after the flood,
fever dreamed & cooled.