Burn This House
       

Tell the rescuers they are not wanted.
Raise a hand to stop the water-bearers.
Let thin curtains snap glass panes
in sudden lashes of bright, and weave
smoke trails through space between your eyes.
Pull exhaled air back through the lips.
Hold each ember by your teeth in shelter.
Allow each column of timber to stray
from notions of form and size, catching
flakes of fire on your tongue. Move now:
circling, strange. Pound feet askew
in the wreck that roasts below.
Wave thin arms about your head—
bend wrists, push hands to lift
the flames to ripeness. Trace with bones
your semblance in the ash, and let darkness
surround, sloughing off the body's burden.

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Copyright © 2013 Kelly Davio All rights reserved
from Burn This House
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission