injun

with a seagull feather in my hand,
i sat where the whipped beach grass
and the iron-laden sand met.

the sand got in my pants.

i thought about what winnie the pooh would want
but i started that fire anyway.

and the little fire that could
burned up into the night without a moon or stars
and the hints i needed
sat and flitted from

burnt tip to burnt tip of the driftwood
that deserved a better end.
i wanted to reach out and stuff
embers and fire and sparks and heat
down my throat, hold them in my cheeks and
never scream for help,
but winnie said that we were out of honey.

sure enough,
here is the bottom of the jar
and you let go.