In the center of the smoke,
she stands burning, flames licking her
hair, arms, legs, face, clothing.
She doesn't run or scream but looks
at me whitefaced through the blaze
that rages but seems not to consume,
seems not even to hurt, as if she is
anaesthetized or shocked or insane--
nor do I smell scorched cloth
nor burnt skin, nor roasted flesh-
undone by the strangeness, I panic,
run with a blanket to water, to
smother the flames, effect a rescue.
When she sees what I am about
she flees, screaming, a torch in the dark.
I am left, holding a sodden blanket
gazing after the brilliance, seeing finally,
that where the need for light is absolute,
a person may choose to burn.
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