No Phoenix [poem]

I hold the matchbook

Not your hand

Not the fire.

Strike and dash—I don’t come back.

Punch up, punch out

Torso twists

The waterspout.

Dawn sheds a new bed.

Spill, scribble sheets

Periods grow pupils

To swallow me.

You were

Ink yolk tar

Antimatter at night

Smoke unconsoled.

Take flight

Bloodstained dove

Death bound diver

Flee, unfree survivor.

Your moue no more,

How can it be

Not to me, not me

Who can hold fume

Or flame?

But the matchbook—

Photo by Shakib Uzzaman on Unsplash