I come by it naturally, with this Aries rising, the stampede of fire, of poised on the edge of my seat jump in headfirst dive swim lake of fire this alchemical brew. Sister Cathy said I have the gift of tears–an insatiable craving for water to wet my impermeable skin, to slather this fire-fueled fire-forged salamander with a love offering, a miracle of ocean, my salt-skin parches in all this heat.
The burning is anger, a hot red button, a thing of fury, a beast that claws its way up my esophagus, no matter how much water I guzzle down.
I have the gift of tears because it’s really sweat, kicked down the cliffs of my cheeks from an internal pressure, volcano innards, a rumblebeast that lurks dragon-like in my womb, that scaly guards its heaped-up gold. My rage is infinite and holy–a gully of flame-tipped trees that spread like oil their seed, their gift for burning.
Infinite fuel down here. The forest of my womanhood echoes with woodpeckers and is ripe for burning.
My woodpile all steamed up with real and true feeling, the more moist the more flame, I am water-submerged fire, that’s what the palm reader said–you can emit your own radiance in those watery caverns, you are a solar flare in the inky sky, beglittered constellations of poems and song. Fire is not wrong, your flame is not for shame.
Burn bright the emperor, burn bright leather door of my esophagus, fire pit sarcophagus rise, retroactive earthquake gear, gallon jugs of water stocked in the basement’s hollows.