Fingers Like Fire

There is a fire burning in my 
It’s stoked by fingers reaching 
from the past


Does porcelain become brass
Under heat and flame?

Can her hands glow even brighter

Any part of her shine

As her eyes do

Through the smoke and wrack of memory?

If any fingers could stir

Cold ash to wakeful tongues

Of hiss crackling orange and red

They could only be her’s

The girl crowned and clothed

In autumn copper herself.

Does she know

That her hands run through my veins?

Still to this day

Card through the warp and weft

Of my tangled skein
Making a cat’s cradle

Cutting bloody slivers of my heart

With the same indifference any child gives

To such games?

Of course she doesn’t

I turned away from any such hope

I have my answers

Knowing I will burn again and again and again

Each time cold ashes are stirred

To quickening light

By hands that could only ever be her’s.


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