My poetry is 
birthday candles, acolyte arson, and
match stick forest fire.

God struck me hot like a
match stick-- set my head 
on fire called me a TOM BOY--
Because it's okay of boys
light fires-- burn
off the limbs of trees
to make canoes-- cross
a river and fish for blue gills--
blue-girls-bluelip--blueblood
mix me into your gasoline stove--
Blue-hair boys call me until
they get too close
and I ignite--
How did you know I wanted use you
for tinder?
the first time I played with matches 
I burned an orchid behind
my ear and renamed myself
in the language of scar and blaze
-- melted each finger tip
down in green and blue wax
on the white face of 
another birthday cake I didn't
want to eat-- do we bake
our own skin into birthdays
or was this all another fire
chronicle? I learned about
burning from your forced
combustion kiss--
you blueblood--bluelips
I learned 
from how God strikes inferno 
on my tongue every time I
ignite in another poem-- 
We swept up the ashes around
the barber stool and everyone
else blew out my birthday candles--
Sung me seventeen--
sung me baby-- sung me into arson--
told me it was beautiful to see
me turn into a match-stick
woman at the age of five
-- a shaved skull of
fire-- to the boys who
ate my hair like birthday cake
or spaghetti I thank you--
to the sacristy matches I used
to light a church-- we learned together
that God smells like sulfur and 
incense-- did you see the 
holy spirit's smoke-tail--
did you see me as the bell acolyte--
who rings three times at the call
of another man's hands-- 
Did you burn off the limbs of
the trees and leave behind forest fire?
Escape to the other side
in a canoe filled with bluegills--
bluegirls and a bluemoon to bake
a birthday cake-- Have many 
match-sticks old am I?
How many times did I want you
to kiss me? I ask because I've
had so much fire I'd rather
be kissed than swept up in ashes--
this is burning-- this is howl--
this is blue hair
this is how age and how
I ice birthday cakes only
you're the one who counts the candles--
writes my name is green and blue
wax-- 
My church has six candles
if you count the hair of this acolyte.
If you county the forest fire
of my forearms-- if you 
count self-harm as self-reclamation--
these were my tree limbs to
make into a canoe-- these were
my blue gills to kiss.
Now boys, it's my birthday so
save you kisses for me
and we can spend the next ten years
figuring out if I ever wanted them.
Your mouth with be seared 
and my tongue will be embers.