Bonfire
Before
the firewood was gathered,
before the driftwood hit the sand
even then we knew
we would burn down the world.
On the beach
older than children
younger than men
we ran from it to tidepools
of blue derangement,
glassy blind to what lived there;
ran to the rush of the unending wave
thinking we could be it,
wear its bitter strength,
forget to strike the match.
That day she was the seal
who swam too far
round the cove bend,
became the dead thing
that should have been a delight
thrown up bloated
twitched and dull in the backwash
of a ministry of crabs,
a convocation of flies.
Shadows lit the bonfire and danced
without their clothes. The music
walked like moving dunes.
The seal stared in the flames'
flicker, knowing there was
not enough sand on the beach
to bury her, only the darkness
of the mouths of flies.
~April 2013
Challenge: Fireblossom Friday
The ever intricate workings of the mind of Fireblossom have conjured up a challenge to assume that one is transformed into a particular animal, and speak with that voice. After grappling with this concept all night, I suddenly realized I'd actually had that experience once, as detailed here. I hope it falls within the meaning of the directive.
Image: The Golden Gate, 1900, by Albert Bierstadt
