scrap of something unwritten

and in the early evening of indian summer when the last straining rays of sun slide over the mountaintop into your small valley speckled with tract-homes, remember that in order for the phoenix to fly it must be consumed in flame. that's always the hard part, susan, sitting through the fiery bits and suddenly having doubts about your ability to be resurrected. but you can never let those doubts win, my love, because you are destined to rise again like dawn and lazarus twice over. keep telling yourself that, keep mumbling it like a prayer, as you rock back and forth with your scarred knees pulled tight to your small breasts and you sit in the almost dark hoping and praying and pleading with the unseen God that the bruise-maker won't come home tonight, that he'll get lost in himself again and in his bottle again and will stay out long enough for you to escape on the 5:10 bus. just keep telling yourself that the fire is a doorway through which the phoenix walks to the next sunshine. just keep telling yourself that, keep praying, keep whispering it. and on the other end of that long bus ride, i'll be waiting with posies and ribbons and hands that won't ever turn into fists against you