we only had a 50/50 chance of surviving
so I count it as a miracle
that we lasted this long. Perhaps the fire in you
could no longer stand
the dirty virgin of me and just set fire
to the whole thing
screaming just stay.
I took a cue from you
and lit a match, but sinking it
into soil never made a blaze. You attained
no bonfire in my perceived failure, only smoke.
Your coward of a wheat harvest mistress
is about small symbols of methodology
of waiting for the elements
to mate.
You lit your own match.
Your wild curled horns shone
in the light
and in your blue irises.
The shed of potting soils and tools
ignited as you vomited up kerosene to feed
the slow determined waves
your back rolling
the flames growing large
over the smolder between my legs
the matchbook
between my teeth.
When you had finished heaving
the sirens coming in the wake
I wanted to hover over the clover
and take the burn instead but
my toes hooked in the soil.
I walked steady
hand lying open the fence with a howl
never looking from a Southward
direction. I let the matchbook
fall where it may.
Jennifer Miller McIntyre
Posts
