lighters 

he liked to collect 
lights he found on the ground

tilting them to
check if there
was any fluid left

we balanced flames on
our thumbs

oh tongue of fire 
i want to be left alone
i want to understand
no language at all

these are all the 
unlit cigarettes we
would have had if we 
would have smoked 

but instead he collected
lighters for fireworks

rolling my bleached hair
into fuses while
i slept beside him

it was infectious

his desire      for fire

the pit in the backyard
where we burned a
year's worth of calendars

& he asked if he could
pick me up & put me in

yes yes     pls

dead grass began 
to grow from my head

& back then dad put on
his ratty shoes to mow
my head

in the effort to 
destroy any notions of
premarital sex we were having 

if you do "it"
over top of your clothing
it doesn't count 

it's like flicking 
your thumb against the back
of a lighter

putting the wrong end
of the cigarette in your mouth 

he was sometimes 
a first full of gun powder 
funneled down my throat

other times he ran low

i had drank his gasoline 
in the night & left him
with only sparks
underneath his finger nails

oh how desperately 
we tried to burst
each other      into flames

lined them up on
his end table 

all the lights

a blue one
a green one
a clear sky one

a snapped bra 
a purple underwear 
a femur crumpled on
     the wooden bed room floor

pushed up against 
his white walls

what kind of soot smudge?

what kind of yellow teeth
     did we make?

& while he wasn't looking
i practiced with my 
how arm hair for 
kindling

he always wanted me
to       eat more

eat more & would 
use fire as a demonstration 

here this is what a woman's
mouth should do 

here this is what swallowing
feels like

you don't have to want
it you just have to keep
going until there's 
nothing left of both
of us

we made fire then

     that's what we made i think

pull me hair harder

off each limb 
like match sticks from the box

like dead branches

like orange skin 
     get your nails in deep

he had clean fingernails
     for a boy

the kind that where glossy
in the glow of his pink salt lamp

i prayed to lighters

that they would empty 

that they would fast themselves
& turn into husks where
corn had once been 

like me

we boiled cobs & ate
them on his back porch

barefoot & cold cement stone

kernels in our teeth 
parchment yellow

falling out of our skulls 
& smoldering in the lawn 

do i call us lovers?

or flint