strike a match

were we by the venom of passion
to our insidious bitterness burned;
engulfed in paper butterflies -
we made them, every one a monarch. swear,
under your breath, every light’s not fire
but every fire is light.

in limp longing, did you lose what light
once reached for you with passion
and pride? go, now: I demand that you fire
your wicked, why-ing eyes, burned
out by an evil cuss, the soft swear
that cunningly carved vengeful butterflies

who melt and mold more butterflies –
cut them from cardboard in what little light
is offered. darling, I swear,
I lick your mouth with purpose, passion
so dark, disturbing, delicious, disgusting: eternal love burned
into luscious lust, the internal infernal fire.

do you claim rights to the fire
within you, you bitch, the butterflies
from your stomach burned
into your rosy, roughed cheeks; your light
skin, and a red lip bleeds passion.
as heat builds, it leads you to swear

you are better; swear, swear
to god you are better, even after the fire
has chosen to char your lungs and passion
devours your swollen heart; butterflies’
kisses nibble the nose of your life’s light
(dead, now; scarlet fever, and it burned.)

what have I done, my dear, to be burned?
I gave you one word; and you made me swear
on us, on the flames of our minds, on feverous nights, on the light
that keeps us, on the fervor that feeds us, on the savage fire
that gorged itself on each of your precious butterflies
the day you bled me dry in rage and passion.

disaster-prone passion! this is the word of the world that burned,
an excuse to torch butterflies and watch them smolder, to swear,
in my face: “my love, every light’s not fire, but every fire is light.”

02.02.10