Our Name Aflame
After we had lain bare beneath the only tree we could find—
a rotting tree, the smell of it clinging—
she told me she hated her name.
“Dahlia,” she said,
her voice more hardened than usual.
“Reminds me too much of that murder case from the ’20s.”
At the time, I had no idea what that was,
and honestly, I didn’t care that she hated her name.
I loved it—
loved the way it rolled off her tongue,
the way her tongue rolled against mine.
The white petals had spread around us,
a virginal blanket laid over the park.
“I love your name better,” she said,
her arms now tight around me.
Maple. My name dripping from her mouth.
She smelled sweet.
She said I tasted sweet.
But nothing was sweeter
than the sap of her stung hollows.
And now I sit here
in the megachurch—
alone.
Why do I keep coming back?
Maybe because I feel I owe the pastor something
for taking us in
after America’s collapse.
