Backdraft

I read this less than an hour after it's completion. It wrote itself, mostly.

The fireman's wife will tell you,
my limbs were on fire the night we met.
dancing in the breeze
and licking the air
with a raging passion
that set your hands in casts for weeks.

My skin singed a new trail in your mind,
a path you walked carelessly
with no other shock than the delight

of setting your newly charred feet

on the earth that

would soon foster seeds for another wild disaster.

My eyes filled with a blaze,
an eruption of hue
so brilliant
that I swore you
were the cause for my blindness.

My mouth sparked with every breath.
I could only speak in verse for the months
that we traced each other's flesh suits,
mapping out possible futures
and fantasies
that came to suffocate
in the smoke rising between us.

An unlined chimney is the difference
between a cosy living room
and a devastating heap of rubble.
When I promised to burn for you,
I did not expect it to be an everlasting smolder,
a pile of lumber,
or a wisp of ash floating across the sky.

I made a promise to the cold brick walls,
with the hope of wrapping myself around you,
enfolding you safely from your own consuming flame.

But you never hear the ticking

inside the chamber-head of a murderer,

claiming it was all in the heat of the moment

as the world world caved in.

We had no way of knowing that cotton sheets

and terrycloth could catch so quickly,

and we were fools for even thinking they wouldn't.

The fireman's wife will tell you,

that no room is safe.

There is always a fiesty stove,

a zealous fireplace,

or an over-working furnace.

Don't get heated floors, your convenience could end you.

Originally performed 12/23/10
Originally written on 12/23/10