i was always told to
not talk to cats in the spring.
they go around
staring at houses
until one becomes a tower of flames.
some things are not as flamable
as you might think.
take for instance a dried rose.
those hold on to their secret oceans
& the fire does not take hold of them.
paper though. paper is a dying tongue.
gone into ash. scattered & swallowed
by the roots of trees who remember
the first time their necks were cut
for the sake of our memories.
i am not opposed to
most forms of destruction.
of course i am terrified. i am always
terrified but stopping a forest fire
is like trying to crawl backwards
to be a seed again. i know
a bird carried me in his mouth
& tried to decide where would be best
to devour me. fire hazard is
not a warning but a state of being.
what comes with having a body
often mistaken for a book.
have you ever plucked a strand of hair?
ever been a prophet. i shaved by head
down to the skull. i am a gourd
hollowed out & full of teeth.
i rattle on a day like this. i take my lighter
& singe the tips of my fingers.
of anything though a seed pod will
burst into fire. crackling like fireworks.
all the little blinking unfutures.
then, the light scent of abyss.
smoke like a tossed veil.