Blaze

I.
Firelight, flickering.
Shadows. I saw only
the light; the darkness
didn’t matter.
My world was this
bright-lit circle
of dancing yellow-red
that jumped across faces
and glanced off my skin
in needles of
heat.
Sparks erupted to the treetops.
A branch fallen and consumed
by lazy red-blue flames. Hungry.
Beware Of Fire, you know
how it can get out of control.
How it can burn.

II.
There’s a part of me that
wants to coax fire onto my hand,
to lift it to my lips and
breath it in.
I want to kiss fire, to
drink it in like water
and keep it alive
inside me. Warm flames.
Look inside me, deeper down.
Blue eyes. Brown hair.
Blush-mottled cheeks.
And a sigh-flash of fire.
Can’t you see? Don’t you know
what smolders beneath my skin?
You can’t. It’s not there.
I’m empty, charred inside,
a burned-out abandoned human shell.

III.
I used to have nightmares about
fire, back before
I stopped being scared of my dreams.
I would run down the stairs
and stumble out to frigid air
while greedy orange tongues stole
what used to be mine.
My dad would drive us all
down the road in search of shelter.
Every neighbor’s house
would be in flames.

IV.
Blow out the candle when you leave the room.
Remember, you can’t let
fire live to escape.
Better it’s dead before it tries
to leave captivity.
Remember, check your smoke-detector
twice a year.
Can’t let fire, sly murderer flames
sneak up like a thief
of your life. You know
fire can kill you. You know
it’s a horribly way to die.
Fire’s embrace, warm, too warm,
you scream in neat
cremation.

V.
Flickering faces like years-old films.
Mouths move, faces
close together in earnest
careful maneuvers.
Balance of logs
failed and collapsed in
a volcano-burst of sparks.
Jump away, further
apart; pretend
you were only talking,
that there was nothing going on
beneath conversation’s surface.
Pretend you didn’t feel it too.

VI.
Passion is rose petals
bursting into flame like
matches
touched to a fuse:—

A satin boom.

VII.
On camping trips, I sat
on the ash-strewn ground just beyond
the safety-limit line
scratched in the sandy dirt.
I lit twigs ablaze, just the ends
smoking into careful flame.
I carried fire to my own
pyramid of sticks
arranged cautiously out of sight
and to the left.
Once it caught, I’d
stamp it out with sandal’d feet
quickly, grinning from adrenaline,
my eyes yellowy reflecting
the brief blaze.
I was never caught.

VIII.
Beware Of Fire.
I heaved the sign, heavy wood,
over my smoke-scented shoulder.
Flames popped in orange language
to their neighbors. Sparks
spiraled to the sky;
the blaze roared higher.
Wood burns.