Passion

They say it burns, like fire,
but I have seen blazes, and
this isn’t like them at all.

The strike-anywhere matchsticks we struck
against the soles of our boots,
held in our hands until we yelped,
throwing them down on the dirt floor,
crushing them into soot.

The first cigars we lit on the porch,
The soft click of the lighter,
the smell of searing flesh
hissing as I set my jaw against
the firebrand I held in my clenched fist.

The campfires we built in the Gila,
where we would roast marshmallows
And toss the skittish salamanders we found
into the white heat, until their scales shriveled
and their eyes popped like roman candles.

The bonfire we set out on the mesa
under the ancient heat of the stars.
You were coked up, liquored up
and thought you could vault the damn thing.
I never could look at your face again.

Every prayer, every kiss,
Every stroke of the pen
stays the tipping hand.