By francine j. harris
She wants to set the house on fire,
gas in both hands, gas on the wall.
It’d be like the sea torched from its floor. She’d run like light
from basement windows. or maybe
suck all arms to room ablaze, so housed
in gut piping. the copper hollowed, reaching to a
heated black rot at bottom. Like ants; maybe she crawl in the dark.
low on the belly maybe she thug out late, lay low
and ink eight walls. lay low like cold, she might
strip bare, black glass. sometimes strut, sometimes
hide late. she runs from house to ember,
a sum of sink. She breathes through flame
a room of spoons. one
bar brick, one black-eyed room splatter, one torch
spent for each arm, from coal to alley, she heaves
hue of concrete into each limb. A house of blue-ring flames
to mimic; someone better run.
Source: Poetry (February 2016)
More Poems about Living
We gathered in a field southwest of town,
several hundred hauling coolers
and folding chairs along a gravel road
dry in August, two ruts of soft dust
that soaked into our clothes
and rose in plumes behind us.
By noon we could discern their massive coils
How to Triumph Like a Girl
I like the lady horses best,
how they make it all look easy,
like running 40 miles per hour
is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger,
after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
But mainly, let’s be honest,...