Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.

Advertisements

Bones

He had skeletons in his closet;
I knew how to set them free.
We watch the bones turn to ash
in the October wind.

My blue Bic lighter flicks
and the composition paper burns
down by the water,
down into the earth.

Black ink dances in dust.
it smells like death.
it smells like life.
Breathe a new beginning.

Every wrong he’s done,
and all the wrong done to him
floats into the atmosphere.
Burning, dissipating, crumbling,
resurrecting into gray clouds.

The bones wail and mourn.
The closet is empty.
I wouldn’t let him keep the urn
even if he wanted to.