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
Brockport, New York
Adirondack Review, Poetry Midwest, Zuzu's Petals, 2River, AugustCutter, Blue Mesa Review, Melange, Pierian Springs, ThreeCandles, Stirring, etc.
Resonance of Kin (forthcoming from 2River View)
Current | Previous
Submit | Editors
Join | Donate
Links | Contact