We had a tipi years ago.
A real one, I don’t remember why.
It was my sanctuary for a time.

In the dark of every morning, outside
in the monogamous moonlight,
I would carry logs into the tipi,

their edges cut like diamonds
into the crook of my elbow,
A sweet kind of pain

as I lifted the flap
to carry the wood
inside.

My ax went down clean
through the middle of a log,
each time dividing

one piece of wood into two,
until there was a nice little pile
of kindling.

How many split open wounds
did it take to make me
so flammable?

In the tipi, I was safe
from a man who got me to bury
my music alive.

You’re too good, he said, shoveling
compliments like so much dirt
into the grave

until he was sure the songs were dead.
There is only room for one
creative in this marriage.

I dug them up when he wasn’t looking.
For decades, I sang them in secret.
The smoke from their flames

seeped into my clothes
from the little fires I built
every day before dawn.

I crumpled up ancient slights,
stuck them, like reverse wedding favors,
under the kindling.

I chose bigger wood, and bigger still,
impossible decisions, bad blood,
points of no return,

till I had built the perfect marriage
to warm my hands by
as it burned to the ground.