Fire Pit

One of my earlier poems from this semester.

They take up the rusty pale

with water more metallic than its vessel

and march to the glowing pit

while I reflect on the fire I was.

I burned bright in the night

and through the sticky pines.

My audience gathered about,

shed their bulky, polyester skin

to see the shimmering dalliance

of my flying embers.

 

Then cold, molten tin cascaded

over me and steam fled from

my lungs in cumulus plumes.

While my body mixed into a sludge

of wet ash, soggy dust and mushy sand

with a vague semblance

retained in the bubbling logs.

 

They inhale the reeking smoke

and stumble back in disgust.

Gazing at the rising steam

they conjure for themselves

a comfortable myth of how I’ll go up

to an ethereal home,

but it’s just that viscous blanket

that’ll rain down to claim new victims.

 

I never thought of that smell

my smoke was always with me

though always eclipsed by my light

and only now do I notice it.

The smell clings to their clothes

and they contort their faces at its

putrid, sulfurous stench.

But their pants will soon air out.

They’ll sleep until dawn and forget

while I remain buried in my pit.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Anything helps!