Tinder
Poem by Indigo Moor •
Photo by Matthew Chong
 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. Previously
published in Tap-Root.
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