Ashes to Ashes

by Stephanie Kapinos

Her black handprint
resides on the cigarette tinted wall of the apartment.
The fingers are streaks too long;
Maybe while falling she tried to catch herself.
Maybe she was trying to claw her way up
the unforgiving surface;
She must have failed, again.

Soot covered, burnt, charcoaled hand
dirtied in the ashes from thirteen years ago.
His charred flesh tainting her skin
from when he stood in that small attic window—
too-big-Elvis-t-shirt, hugging his kitten, screaming out—
as the flames transformed his alabaster skin to onyx.
She couldn’t take his place from so many miles, so many minutes away.
The ash from his soft, warm tongue
that flexed and contorted to sing her to sleep,
that knew the inside of her cheeks, the surface of each tooth,
that had touched the words she never said;
The ash from his calloused palms,
that mixed dirt and grease with her tears,
that knew the unmistakable feel of her body tremble,
that had resided in hers through walks, movies, goodbyes.
These ashes had rubbed inextricably into her pores,
painting a darkness,
a spot on her soul, that taints
everything she touches and spreads into every crevice of her fall.
Eyelash black streaking the walls she climbs,
trying to escape her own condemnation.
She darkens everything.

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