nothing throws light that does not cremate…
Last night the fire was compelling
as it danced behind the wood stove glass…
darkening surface of woodgrain,
scorching, blackening, releasing gases
on which it fed. Flames seemed to beckon me
to join the celebration, feast dance of all time
to music crackling, erratic snapping,
carnival of everlasting cremation.
The aspect changed as they ate deeper;
the re-breathing ventilation of the stove
blasted two flaming whirling circles surrounding
black eyes containing lightless pits,
the nothingness to which the fire aspired.
Charring logs formed cheekbones underneath.
Underneath red embers glowed,
showing threatening teeth in a grim mouth.
Opening the door I drew close,
own face flaming, skin drawing tight,
neurons firing impulses to sweat glands too late
to evaporate pain of incendiary truth.
Nothing throws light that does not cremate
something else, a universe of atoms
ripped apart by each of us; even fireflies
dance destruction as they mate.
~ Wry Welwood,
late twentieth century,
May, 2021.
Submitted in response to J.D. Harms’ Wednesday Prose Poem prompt in Scrittura: surrender.
Thanks to J.D. and Jessica Lee McMillan.