Soot

The trunk is a mess of jumper cables

and a spare tire that’s lost its air.

At the bottom, the paper bag of briquettes

has finally given up.

It leaked through a jagged tear in the corner.

Now the carpet is velvet with black dust.

It gets into the hinges,

it gets under the nails.

I try to brush it out with a rag,

but it only finds the deep lines of my palms.

A map of every time I’ve touched something

that was meant to be burned.