Brushfire
This ravishing is not
the cipher in the grass
occluding the sun.
Meadow singed soon
enough. It is the perfect
dismembering of my
body that I do so well,
each part singing itself
into relief against grass
that is high and blonde
as a girl. I hide inside
her, spelling myself
this way, spelling myself
that. On the cool ground
beneath a tree, my mouth
lies torn and bruised
among the fruit. My face
is beautiful without it,
closed and white as a moon.
Summer is cinder the way
I live her. My art is colder.
I remember how it tasted
like metal. I go towards
my arms where they are
wrapped around each other
in the sun, and I rub them
together until each falls
to fire, and then I call the wind.
-Quinn Latimer
About the Author
Quinn Latimer's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Paris Review, Phoebe, Prairie Schooner, Seneca Review, and elsewhere.
