Too late to talk of causes. A faulty switch?
A pile of letters left in an attic’s heat?
Desire unveiled too late to relinquish
its sensual trail? All these, and love’s capacity
to make a fearful pit, then send a Beatrice to us
in Limbo. Protectors of the smiths,
patrons of handicrafts; molders of metal
dreams. You conceived me: one of your
handmaidens forged out of bronze and yellow
flames. Beautiful corridor of fire
transmuting ordinary days into shimmering
reliefs. I was the heat, the blast of stars
rooting itself in love’s soft metal. I was the maker
of alloys naturally weak. Gifts that I hammered
and hammered. I never ran from technique.
Copyright © 2008 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.
Published in The New Formalist, Volume VIII, Number I.
House on Fire