You chose an incinerator as a parting gift to your shallow companionship, leaving me the dirty work— to clean the mess you made. Your whistling down the hall asphyxiates my mind, a cue to start thrashing, yet my body remains a gate holding back dammed water. If you listen carefully you can hear the soft groan of turbulence, the diminished, muted sound of Cyclone Idai. If you inspect closely, miniature cracks come to light as a hawk surveys the ground— a preserved constellation of melted iron awaiting final form I refuse to leave evidence of imminent flooding If I flood, let it be with meaning. Let it be as unpredictable as the asteroid that dawned the Cenozoic era. If reparations and stability are possibilities, not even seismic waves shall I feel, not aridity nor desolation— only the coolness the wind brings I stand on solitary ground, revered, a mystery left alone. No answer shall I give— a Stonehenge mere miles from soot-stained cities Your back faces me, blocking the sun, casting a languid shadow How deeply you must love haunting me I throw a handful of salt at your unassuming back Fresh air gushes, caressing my cheek. The decadent sun blows kisses of warmth, drying my drenched body. The phantom is vanquished at least for now. Soot and ash flee, carried elsewhere by the wind