The burn mark on my arm is still vivid,
harshly interrupting the skin surrounding it.
You once said how the mark resembled a fish, a minnow
or perhaps an African Violet.
Then you continued to draw an imitation in pencil
bumpy and uneven on the stucco wall. 
I was always partial to bluefish and dandelions anyway.
And I never liked your drawings they always reminded me
of the sound of your voice, overly confident as though
you were constantly lecturing me on useless trivia.
How the rivers of Nantucket are filled with more bluefish
than anywhere else in the world.
I would try to ignore the ringing of your voice and 
continue to twist the day into orange peels.
Running my hands over the glass of the windows
smooth and unmarred. 
Everything seemed clearly defined and distant
hanging beyond touch.
It is a year later,
and I am covering myself with the dust 
that hangs in the room.
The white paint is chipping onto my head.  Your pictures 
Are peeling from the walls.
Outside, the trees are frozen, they are separate spectacles.

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Copyright © 2005 by Calaveras Station and the CSUS English Department.