Starting To Burn

As I cleaned the house I felt a fire in my heart that crackled and spit as sticks of old wounds poked atme from the inside. I laughed. I am getting bigger in my feeling, wanting to take off like some kind of bird. I don’t know where I am going, but the burning wicked lover in me wants to take everything with us up in smoke.

I want to tell the story of the ones who burned the beautiful skins of our young lives. I want to name them and march their ugly heads on sticks in a grand parade of love.

Puppets of their heads. I can see hers and part of me feels a small wish to touch her.

Hair brings back hands and strokes and the calling of names. Her hair was beautiful, and tricks me back into her realm like all the other kids.

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