Fire Fights Itself

by Jake Reynolds

Trust not a word I say, not one lick
or spit of hot-hit-whisper. Don’t let me
beguile you, peacock feather dance,
melt the air above my head: this is no magic,
just a rotten science. Resist the urge for compliance:
pat me down, put me out, smother me
with your rags. Clothe me in black rings.
Don’t let me do what I want, don’t let me
reach my full potential, don’t let me become
an ember of myself, a ravenous beast
of buildings, forests, your Sunday roast…
turn me off, shut me down, leave me dead
in your boot. I didn’t mean to spring here,
summoned by two-stick friction,
pictured in your battles, your catastrophes,
painted behind the eyes of your devils
whose abodes bow and cower at my brothers…
douse me, drown me, let me settle.