Departing Phoenix

I swallow bird songs that do not resurface—
if I open my wrists, they will fly out.

I fall into necessity again,
at a gas station, unable to pay

for the fuel, yet yearning for the road.
The attendant balances a pencil

on her nose and talks of the circus returning.
I am flashbulbs of flirtation and shame;

whichever currency is required.
Her register drawer shuts but stays hungry.

A big-lettered sign says not to smoke,
but everywhere there is talk of matches.

In the empurpled desert light
I am an old Buick speeding over a cliff:

seconds of brilliant air singing past my face,
before impact, ignition, my unfurling black

and orange tongue. Oh let me be a song,
a wing of ash escaping from the wreckage.

Copyright © 2003 J. P. Dancing Bear All rights reserved
from Controlled Burn
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission