The Flames

The Flames

The flames know what they’ve been given to eat.
They’d prefer cabbages of newspaper,
Brush piles in the highway median,
A barn some boys played in for the last time.
Give them an apartment complex in which
Hoarders have gathered what the world has
Suffered them to, that wasn’t built to code.
Give them the curving wicks of candles
Lonely women light for the company
Of something dancing, tips of cigarettes,
Art in the desert, a letter the one
Who wrote it decides against sending,
A photograph he can no longer stand
To look at, trash in a barrel under
An overpass, glowing off outstretched hands.
Give them a church. How delicious they are,
Seasoned with centuries of incense smoke.
Feed them the wooden icons whose faces
Are as calm as they’re burning as they are
When they aren’t. Give them forests,
Acres and acres to feast upon, hors
D’oeuvres of power poles. And, yes, bodies, but
Only after they’ve been smothered by smoke.
They may still be alive when they’re eaten
But can’t be said to be eaten alive.
But the flames have no appetite for this
Journalist’s arm, not at this odd hour,
And not here, right in front of the White House.
They would much prefer to eat the White House.
Indeed, they tasted it once, and liked it,
But weren’t allowed to finish it. But
Despite the fact the flames would rather eat
Anything else, they’ll eat what they’re given
To eat, like people with no choice because
They’re starving.