Untitled (ST)

He was always on fire. Nobody knew
how to put him out.
When he sat down for dinner
the fork and knife turned molten
in his bright hands.
He slept on kindling and his dreams
were eddies of smoke slipping under the bedroom door.
If a wind caught him at the right time he might roar up
anywhere, say an office supply store,
scorching the mini-staplers and fax machines.
He was happiest in the open air,
Southern meadows where he could blaze freely,
and he hated the ocean,
also blankets,
also Buddhism.
Once I wanted an extinguisher,
but now I see
I’m on fire too.
Each breath fresh fuel.
My new dress in flames.

– Sarah Todd


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