William J. Neumire


The heat has to come from somewhere.
The quartered log lies like a cadaver
And waits for extraction.

Thatís what happens, you know.
The flame separates the wood
Like a cold hand pushing apart the knees.
And then it begins to remove things:
Oxygen, color, heft.

And thatís what feeds it, like a parched
Drunk whose beer only makes him more thirsty.
Each ebb of fire takes more, clears a space
Inside the source where the wood blackens
Without, nothingness rushing to the wound
Like the teeming blood under a purpled bruise.
It goes on like this -- like something unexaminable-
For however long it takes to tear a thing apart,
To dig at it from within until it becomes
Its shadow, and heaps on the ground
Like ash.

Location: Brockport, New York
Occupation: Preschool Teacher
Email: wjneumire@msn.com
Publications: Adirondack Review, Poetry Midwest, Zuzu's Petals, 2River, AugustCutter, Blue Mesa Review, Melange, Pierian Springs, ThreeCandles, Stirring, etc.
Chapbook: Resonance of Kin (forthcoming from 2River View)

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