Fire-Arrow

Fire—stay well,
love the wind that makes your flame leap,
and whatever dark you dwell in—
hold it close.
 
I too warm the ones
who come at midnight,
half-burned,
their bodies dripping counterfeit love.
If fire takes them,
where will sorrow find its home?
 
Those who lie down beside me,
whose lecherous lips I trace with lust,
whose bodies, godlike in their hunger,
I pay for with bursts of flame—
this bodiless love you gave me,
others will give,
others have given,
and still more want to give.
 
I have stroked light into them,
and like you—
consumed to ash—
I light the lamp.
 
Love the changing of bodies;
those who burn
like blind moths,
who come to taste desire’s sap,
die, love,
yet leave behind
the scars of burnt flesh—
your design,
your leaping tongue of fire.
 
The one who loves you
holds close as a lover in a clasp,
feeling the scorch along his skin.
 
Fire—you, like me, are indifferent;
my metallic heart
bears your scar-marks,
your steady mockery.
Your power,
the body’s quenching blaze,
the pyre’s union of flame and flesh—
in that heat,
comfort and peace arrive.
 
If you could,
you would let my mind rest
for just two breaths—
but instead you raise
the leaping flame,
burn me to cinders.
 
And maybe one day,
at last,
my mind will die,
and my peace will be whole.