Burn
posted Mar 25, 2014
Some birds may make nests
from their feathers & bone.
A wing will ring hollow.
If to think is like playing
with fire, each next thought
is built on time's quicksand.
Call its rubble your home
& cross your heart on the
Bible, then use it to catch
a crotch of loose tinder—
splinters of rood, buckshot
& scarred. Bubbling lovers
who pop questions blow
rings of smoke. Hand me
that nub you've held out
& promise no promises.
Wait till the darkness falls
over the rim, then banter
& rib. We'll give an Indian
burn to each other. So dig
me enough to bust a lame
joke; keep a flame war up.
©
currently lives in Tucson, Arizona, where he is completing a Ph.D. in English from Cornell University. His recent work has been published in Drunken Boat, Phoebe, Rabbit, and elsewhere.
Cordeiro’s poem “A Hagiography of Dust” also appears in this issue.