The Burning Woman

 

“We really didn’t get a chance

to talk much about poetry,” I say to you,

standing in the darkness

outside of the restaurant,

waiting on our friends to say goodbye

for the last time.

 

“There will be plenty of time,” you tell me,

confident that our relationship

over poetry and life

will develop over the days

as certain as the blooming

of a prophecy in a dream.

 

And then I feel guilty

that I so easily ignored “being there”

with my other friends

in such a rush to get inside your heart

with its blooming fire

and flow.

 

The night I met you,

you were standing there with your long dark hair

flowing towards the earth under the sky of stars

and I could see the sparks in your eyes.

You reached out and took my hand

and I felt the warm search of your hold.

 

Ever since

I haven’t stopped thinking about

your intensity,

wanting to call you every day

and read the newest poems

I know you’ve poured out onto the page.

 

The animal that lives deep inside of me

is looking through the glass now

is envious.

 

The feelings that come so easily out of your heart,

your insatiable appetite for books and ideas and life—

welcoming everything in your path

with your philosophy of embraces,

face of  a thousand poems.

 

You’re on fire

and I need a drink or I need a match.

But I want a hug.

 

© Mark Parsons