Janie Loves an Arsonist
Poem by Traci Brimhall •
Photo by Jill Burhans
 He loves every kind of burn, stays in the sun until blisters pearl his skin, wants sex on carpets to feel himself rip and flare. He hides matches in his sock drawer, his desk, his medicine cabinet, easy access for a quick fix. He envies Joan of Arc and burns empty buildings on her birthday, shuddering at each sweet crackle. When they met, he barbecued and burned her books, excited by so much to kiss and destroy. She loved his burnt hair, the cinders in his sheets. He sent her the ashes of his love letters; she gave him kindling and coal. He proposed getting married by a burning church but settled for a fireplace. Some days she comes home to find the bed singed, the crib still smoking. |