by Lisa Marie Brodsky
Pointless to me about matters beginning.
I just assumed things were born out of fire
And how I, now, gravitate toward fire
Not merely out of grief but curiosity.
Desire rises like fire.
He speaks like it as she turns away,
A broken slap. She feels his
It is his fire that rules.
Strangers brush past each other
Like blowing branches on one lone tree
And if one bumps, if one scraps
There it is: fire.
Goddesses have it in their eyes
Gods in their hands
When they unclothe each other
The sun is high and burns on glass.
This is readiness.
It was nice to think anything could melt.
After 1000 days of crying
A multi-colored rug, each fiber woven on each day.
It was easy to think this could end
With no casualties.
The missing breast; she will get used to it.
Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2020 Lisa Marie Brodsky