I kept fire wrapped in folded paper
Inside a little brown envelope
Closed with a string clasp
Hidden in my skirts.
When I got a fever
And I went red
From west to east across my skin
Like prairie in love with the lightning.
What's the matter?
Why don't you come to me anymore?
I can write more poems,
Hang the verses from my bones,
And you can find how I used to feel--
But you'll have to sully your
Sifting with your fingers through my ashes.
for Thursday Think Tank #33
photo by Metin Demiralay