Tinder

Photograph by Matthew Chong


Tinder


When the music rising
arcs the sunset into disbelief,
it’s time to sweat away
what kills us in the day hours.

At wood’s edge,
the candlelit shack and
its jackbeat pulse—
its black-rhythm heart—
its pale-veined wood.

Through the door glides
a dress, lily-struck bright
and flowing. We touch hands
and the petals open in a spin.

By midnight we have covered
and recovered each other’s
steps with grace. The light by
which we dance: candle’s breath
lapping at our heels.

Our other selves, the daylight people,
in this place are nothing more than
dry kindling heaped
on a funeral pyre— (burn sweetly)
a crippling shame
of darkened skin— (burns fiercely).

Armored with smiles
hothouse tears lace our cheek
as we dance the nightly ritual,
sacrifice of flesh.

At least,
this immolation is honorable,
saints and demons
have perished this way: frenzied,
spent, ablaze.


Indigo Moor


Posted over on Freewebs
Previously published in Tap-Root.