I love your little breasts
sized for my hands
waiting to be caressed

fingers tracing the curve
from breast to belly to –
I love it when you moan

eyes closing, breath catching
you feel my invasion
as if burned by fire…

Fever

November 23, 2019

I am the fever that lights your passion
the fire in your night
the storm capsizing your body…

spontaneously combust

November 8, 2019

It makes all the sense in the world. You awaken and smell smoke and see that the cat at the foot of the bed is on fire. And so you scoop him up and race to the bathroom and douse him with the tub. You reassure him that he will be fine – he is fine – telling him that everything’s okay. You hold him firmly but gently under the faucet because you are worried about his burns.

The only thing is, you’re not awake. But you’re not precisely dreaming, either. After all, in the morning the sheets are wet where the cat slept when you both went back to bed, and there is fur in the tub. There are scratch marks on your arms and the back of your hands, because the cat was justifiably resistant to the idea of a shower in the middle of the night. And, of course, the animal was never on fire. Northing in the house was on fire. And you’re a responsible person; you know that cats and dogs don’t spontaneously combust. But in the middle of the night, in the fidelity of that instant, you were saving the cat’s life and that was all that mattered.

Chris Bohjalian
The Sleepwalker

The merging of powers

October 22, 2019

Earth, air, water, fire. We call on them, use them, with respect. It’s not our power over them, but the merging of our power with theirs.

Nora Roberts
Dark Witch

fire storm

October 8, 2019

I’m the fever lighting your passion, a blazing fire in our night – and the fire storm that finally capsizes your body…

Why things burn

September 26, 2019

My fire-eating career came to an end
when I could no longer tell
when to spit and when

to swallow.
Last night in Amsterdam,
1,000 tulips burned to death.

I have an alibi. When I walked by
your garden, your hand
grenades were in bloom.

You caught me playing
loves me, loves me
not, metal pins between my teeth.

I forget the difference
between seduction
and arson,

ignition and cognition. I am a girl
with incendiary
vices and you have a filthy never

mind. If you say no, twice,
it’s a four-letter word.
You are so dirty, people have planted

flowers on you: heliotropes. sun-
flowers. You’ll take
anything. Loves me,

loves me not.
I want to bend you over
and whisper: “potting soil,” “fresh

cut.” When you made
the urgent fists of peonies
a proposition, I stole a pair of botanists’

hands. Green. Confident. All thumbs.
I look sharp in garden
shears and it rained spring

all night. 1,000 tulips
burned to death
in Amsterdam.

We didn’t hear the sirens.
All night, you held my alibis
so softly, like taboos

already broken.

Daphne Gottlieb

Poetry

August 4, 2019

If prose is a house, poetry is a man on fire running quite fast through it.

Anne Carson
Interview with Kate Kellaway: 30th October 2016 in Guardian newspaper

ON THE QUEER GIRL FANTASY

December 4, 2018

I say I love women & men’s faces crack open
like a jawless throat to swallow me

whole. They say, that’s hot. They’re thinking
sultry eyes, pay-for-more-action, queer

cured by cock. Body as sport. Eyes on everyone
but each other: a spectacle of choice.

Isn’t real unless a man is done proving he can
make a door out of an unopened envelope.

Question: if a girl kisses another girl with
no witness, does that revelation make a sound?

The catch in throat, trembling wrists, terror
blooming into wreathfuls of ribs, wearing

the future around her neck like a noose
— or the bullet caged behind front teeth

when gutted with a pistol in the mouth,
taught a woman’s place is with a cock

-ed gun in the belly if it won’t fire between
her thighs. The difference is when

the bleeding starts. Splintering drowned by
on-screen applause or dark-alley backhand.

I love women. I mean in the way that one
chooses her own murder over men.

Body softened with gasoline & ash. To be
unearthed by hands searching for rain

& crawl out of that grave into the story where
there’s no one else. Just her smile

set on bend of my skull, a coronet. Her eyelashes
the curve of two wings in flight.

I will always love her like walking into fire.
She will always be the kind of pretty so sharp

it feels like loving a knife.

Natalie Wee

Samhain Ritual

November 1, 2018

Last night out, naked to the cold mechanics of the stars. Flames from our bonfire licking the wide expanse of sky. The cold air indifferent to each of us. The moor empty, silent except for the whispered patterns of our words. Easy to believe the world has been abandoned –

man on fire

October 27, 2018

If prose is a house, poetry is a man on fire running quite fast through it.

Anne Carson
Interview with Kate Kellaway in the Guardian newspaper 30th October 2016