Poem: Fire

 

Fire

 

a mane, a chrysanthemum,

an orange-blue bear trap.

each lick grazes

the stomach of oxygen,

tasting rarified flesh.

grey bones hide in the flames

as if heat were psalms

risen from the grief of embers.

 

in the crude headdress,

furious fingers

strum flickery strings.

zithers, lyres, psalteries

forged of tortured gas

devour each other,

writhe to become

the music itself,

sibilant notes

that would destroy

a Stradivarius

for a few bars.

 

why do i look into the fire

as if it forged spells

out of volatile memories?

there is no sorcery

in its jaws except illusion.

it doesn’t want to be seen

for what it is:  a snake

which mesmerizes a chickadee,

fangs of a blurry madhouse

ushering a pilgrimage of sufferers

on a quick journey home.

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