Poet on Fire
by Jill C. Alt


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.






Copyright © 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.