Phoenix in April

Phoenix in April
This could be
any street in any city until we turn

a corner and meet a flying
buttress, thick and arched

as a breaching whale. Over here,
palo verdes in bloom offer yellow

shelter to those who stroll
beneath. Over there,

David would follow the roundabout,
cars pumping in and out like blood

through the heart. I would scream
at the oncoming autos--my fear

his absolute delight. Over here,
a campus waits, windowless

slabs of geometric buildings,
prepared for July’s heat. Over

there, nothing prepares for such heat. Stone
structures wider than whales cannot burn

whispers one side: What has lived
nine-hundred years cannot yield. On

the other side, I have never been able
to fully leave him there

since he left me here. Sometimes,
like a tiny voice aloft

in a cavernous space, I still hear him
say my name: Kimm-ee. Here

and there, absence
burns longer than fuel. Over there,

we walked through the wooden
doors, dipped our fingertips

into the font: north,
south, west, east. Our faith

invisible until that moment. Over
there, the spire is on

fire while here the red
yucca stretches crimson

flowers—thin sparks shooting
over green

leaves. Here, I give
the roundabout another go: a flash, a blink,

a curve, a millennium furling
into flames.
 
© Kimberly Williams