If I Were Fire
I could move like a changeable leaf
wrapping and curving on the edges
while my central vein bent with the dry wind.
dripping and stretching. Hot aspiring
to a cool blue God.
If I were fire you’d think me to a peanut between your eyes.
You’re only just now getting the trick of fixing me there
and are sure you’re changing too—you see me outside your brow.
You watch me flickering to your breath.
You inhale through full lips, soft tongue
and then pulse out a gentle nudge of air that yawns me
in a soft stretch off my wick, my spine.
A shirt on a pole drying in the backyard.
A flat Indiana farm.
If I were fire, I’d sheath around your flesh,
burn you like noon’s gaze, cape you under orange light.
I’d consume the hair all over you, the grasses
on the open plain, and then, when you were clean,
I’d love your spine as mine and all your limbs would wear me.