Today's poem is by Quinn Latimer

Brush Fire

This ravishing is not
the cipher in the grass

occluding the sun.
Meadow singed soon

enough. It is the perfect
dismembering of my

body that I do so well,
each part singing itself

into relief against grass
that is high and blonde

as a girl. I hide inside
her, spelling myself

this way, spelling myself
that. On the cool ground

beneath a tree, my mouth
lies torn and bruised

among the fruit. My face
is beautiful without it,

closed and white as a moon.
Summer is cinder the way

I live her. My art is colder.
I remember how it tasted

like metal. I go toward
my arms where they are

wrapped around each other
in the sun, and I rub them

together until each falls
to fire, and then I call the wind.

Copyright © 2012 Quinn Latimer All rights reserved
from Rumored Animals
Dream Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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