The feeling inside was powder and flame in the gun of my throat.   I didn’t know how to shape my fingers ‘round your wrists so that you’d understand.   When I said ribbons yellow and turn, what I meant was the village burned. Here,   below our feet. In the smoke, the sound was a fast hand erasing.   That winter, the sky was so very white and nothing changed until you— you became this other in a flash of rapid oxidation: too   like the whole world: where nothing could be counted   or meant.   * * *   When I broke the jar, it was because I threw it at the floor.   Or it was because a dark creature…