The stuff that comes out a bird's mouth.
was everything you felt for me
a trick of the light?
some magician’s smoke
fanned to achieve
the appropriate density?
how many parts per million
were enough to make my
eyes water?
was the fire a reflection
in a mirror
without heat,
without the power to consume?
see my ashes for what they are
no trickery here
just crematory soot
bones to grind into flour
the sun throws rocks at me
and my umbrella
shudders under the weight
of these fiery meteors
my hair reeks of smoke
tiny holes have begun appearing
in my shirt where the cosmic
ash has fallen
how i wish they didn’t carry
all that gravity with them
in addition to their smoldering
hearts
——
It’s National Poetry Writing Month!
Day 18
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passing by fenced homes
i draw in the smell of fire
five years old again
i rest on my back
staring at a ceiling
scraped smooth
and white
by previous owners
the only thing tearing
at my liver
an eagle named
anxiety as the weekend
slips over the horizon
with the sun
i close my eyes
and see an expanse of white
and open my eyes
and see an expanse of white
i wonder what it would be like
to give the gift of fire
without getting blistered hands
if being chained to a rock
is all that bad
having made a mark
that went down on his
permanent record
and i wonder what color
his sky is
the sun hangs angry and red
two hands above the horizon
like a sleepy devil’s eye
burning through smokey clouds
though soft and orange
i am punished for looking
it scars the inside eyelids
i see its echo when i close my eyes
i will see its echo
when i sleep
and dream blind
——
we saw no angels only
the aftermath of their
swords cutting the air
orange sunset through
clouds of distant smoke
and somewhere a single
dog barking
__________i hope someone
threw that loud bastard
a bone to calm him down
as for the angels–well
they can carve up heaven
as they see fit
there aren’t enough
actual souls down here
to complain about it
everything moves in a circle
what i have breathed in
i will breathe out
my spine pushes its way out
through the back of my neck
hot skin, dry eyes
no pain, just pressure
like when the doctor says
you may feel a little discomfort
everything moves in a circle
what i have breathed out
i must breathe in
heavy, dark wings
emerge from my back
black snake fireworks
intumescent ash and billowing smoke
rings of fire carving new bones
where my shoulder blades once were
these wings beat
throw dust into the air
create tornadoes of choking, blinding sand
but they cannot lift me
and my arms hang now useless and free
everything moves in a circle
what i will breathe in
i have already breathed out
when i die
i want to be wrung out
like a dish rag
every ounce of blood
every drop of salty water
squeezed out
i want to be pressure cooked
and made into ceramic bricks
that will last forever
and i want to be built into
a fireplace
where you burn logs
on cold nights
you will hear my voice
whispering in the flames
and the fire will warm my cold
brick nature
and i will feel like flesh
to your fingers
when your run your hands over me
——
someday soon i am going to catch on fire
not through any action of my own
not by smoking in bed
i’m too cheap to buy cigarettes
not by standing too close to an open flame
while wearing non-flame-retardant pajamas
not by standing beneath a giant magnifying glass
on a sunny day like some ant cooked by a bully
not even from some smoldering look you
carelessly toss my way
though that would be my preferred method
i think spontaneous combustion is nature’s way
of cleaning up its weeds
turning us into carbon-rich ash for a new
generation of green things without nettles
so i tell myself i won’t mind so much
when i finally smell the smoke
the last fall of rain
did little to put out
a fire burning
in the marrow of my bones
smoke enough to choke
and a rough slurry of ashes
were all that cleansing
could effect
the heavens will have to spare
more water than there is
in all seven seas
to drown me
