The Arsonist’s Lament
from number 41, Spring 2014
If like fire I could lash the fields
and climb the crowns of pines
to test the air with my tongue,
would the soul-stunned dream
of me, one who rewrites the dark
codices in the libraries of flame?
Or will I bed down in the horn
of a ram, quiet as the moth’s
applause? I hum to the wires
in the walls of an empty room
that once ached with ardor.
Memories, banked in ash, persist,
abandoned to the rain’s erasures.
I will never be the man who worries
the earth with furrows. I burn
like those who spell the hidden names
of kerosene in the yellow grasses.
For I have watched the world emerge
from a ductile seed, have seen the men
who raise their sons in fists of smoke
and stamp on the sky dark alphabets
full of syllables so raw they sting
the throat. I lift myself to that song.