by Sarah Anderson
You see, it was hot orange light back in the forest
by the rusted water tower where he said never turn this way —
flames billowed to the right —
never want this way again.
She couldn’t make out his face across the flames rising
a giant metal bucket
the frozen lake. She wasn’t sure
what it was but a hunger, the kind only a virgin knows
This was primal. Two people staring at each other
through the swirling dust and slide projector light
an art history lecture twenty years ago. He looked at her
chipping clay from beneath a thumbnail. Her hands
She searched for him during lectures,
His five o’clock shadow. What if she had gone with him
to the water tower?