my lover should wear a warning.
she’s flammable
the slightest bit of friction and she’ll ignite
just a brush-up with her in the frozen food aisle and she’ll singe your clothing
melt the Haagen-Dazs
send you back to your wife smelling like rum raisin and burning lust
you’ll fuck her while she fingers the holes
like cigarette burns
in what is now your favorite shirt
it won’t be enough
she’s combustible
don’t leave her in high temps or direct sunlight
don’t leave her at all
she’ll burn through the floorboard
drop down into the apartment of the man below
consume him while his television blares
Smokey the Bear lavishes responsibility
and Seinfeld asks “What’s the deal with love?”
but the man in 13B will never know
he’ll be up her skirt
into that furnace
puffed from her mouth like a smoke ring
she’ll keep going
sear through the entire building
pouring, liquid hot, through man and wood alike
she’ll add them to her flow
like whiskey swallowing ice
careful
she’ll kill the grass
leave a black patch on her way through the crust
she’ll wear the mantle
lick the core
when she gets to the center
she’ll fuck Jules Vern while the mastodons watch
the father of science fiction burns at Fahrenheit 451
her orgasm will wipe-out the dinosaurs
set Vesuvius to bashful coughing
the natives will come to pray at her burning bush
but she’ll speak with Kalika’s voice
end the world in fire and ash
not with a whisper
but with a moan that crackles like the fires of industry
back straight as a fireman’s pole
eyes as destructive and hungry as progress
when she’s done
she’ll tip-toe back into the ruin of the apartment
black footprints on the carpet
slide into bed beside me
soot marks like tire tread on the white sheets
cool enough almost to touch now that she has raged
I’ll lay next to her like a hearth
I’ll hold my hands above her breasts like they are the burners on a stove
I’ll be warmed
she’ll be fed
this is how a man can come to love fire
my lover should wear a warning
Kristin Garth & Pink Plastic House a tiny journal 