Catching fire

You said

  from behind your book of shapes

If a fire got in

that would be it        whoosh

   and I nodded abstractedly

not thinking it through

  the patient touch paper

            the incendiary itch

              the virgin tongue that licks

            along the heartlines on each palm        

                twists in

                               through an undefended edge

                and then

            the blood orange bristle of indoor fire

  my fingers burning holes in everything

curtains

   soft furnishings

            pelts

  the bone dry roses of that bouquet

             that bunch of old pursed mouths

                gone            whoosh

            in a tangerine flash

     the tendons in their carping throats

  turned sparks that fountain up

to singe the cooling skin of last night’s moon

   rain down to feed a fire that eats

            the parquet floor for breakfast

               blows open doors with a BOOMBOOMBOOM

             makes every window sing a cracked tune

            houses without chimneys

    should not huff and puff

fetches us out of our little cold stoves

      to fill us with a roman candle rush

             that boils my blood like jubilee jam

                        and I am

            in love with the act of making fire

   my cape of smoke

this newborn burn

       the tinder

  and flint

of each

      next

            word

 

 

 

 

20 November 2015

Catching Fire – Janet Lees

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