I
You were six and liked to dig in the mud and find the living things under there. Beetles round and greenbluepurp iridescent. Fat worms. Some centipedes, orange, sharp. The salamanders with little fires in their eyes. Unearthing a wriggling fire-lizard, you shrieked a shriek of happiness and plopped him into your lap. His fire-eyes bulged and smoldered up at your smile. You named him Tiny Racer for the yellow stripe on his slimy black back--black like the back of a shiny black racecar, you said. He was tiny, too, and lived in a bucket with leaves and twigs and mud and baby worms to eat every morning when you woke up.
II
You are sixteen going on seventeen. I'll depend on you.
III
You buried the salamander in the sand in the grass (tall wavy green-grey silk sawtooth) where the ants wouldn't find him. Water by the by and wind rushing overhead but you were safe in the hollow depression in the sand with grass and greyblue sky. Tiny Racer. Only a little fire left in his eyes and named for his blackback yellowstripe tininess he looked so sad in the hole in the sand in the grass you made for him. You cried, face buried in the sand with the sky and the grass watching your back.
IV
Leonard Cohen says it best:
Slow cliffs of green water, and
kissing fishes making nests
in your loose white winding sheet.
V
I was there. I was there too. You don't remember now but I was there too. Crouching in the grass. Fire under the sand. Linked fingers. Slow tears. Your skull touching mine.