Ash Wednesday

I am wearing your shirt
and it smells like cinnamon, sweet
vanilla, Chianti. I watch the clock, humming the minutes
till you come home.

The moon is fighting
with winter’s wilting hands, threatening spring.
I am warm and nearly blind, staring into the fire, one ear

always listening for the welcome whir
of the garage door opening, your footsteps
shuffling across the cement, the turn
of the doorknob and the occasional
accidental setting off of the burglar alarm
cutting through the easy night with cries
sharper than the screams of an angry woman.

Tonight, I’ve offset the alarm and you come in
smelling like bread and beer, cigarette smoke
and draw me to you, weak with hunger and with thirst.

c. Melissa K. Furbush, 2008