The arsonist in me salivates
when I see the chandelier made of matches
hanging from the hook at the Mattress
Factory. I imagine a flame kissing
its thousands of red charred nipples,
seeing the museum, the chairs, ignite.
Then I imagine whole villages
made of matches; a flammable city
where lovers drink cold tea
in bed, setting off smoke alarms
and fucking as the lights go out,
and every drop of sweat
could light on fire: even the dew
on tulip bulbs trembles in heat
with stamens that tease.
I imagine a shirtwaist factory,
vanishing, releasing balloons
into the roseate air; a slime trail,
a fire slug, hydrants erected
on every lawn, men soaking rags
in steaming water, the smell of oleanders
tart & smoke-seared. Then the kerosene.
Skinny, soot-kneed, it is a girl. She opens
her lungs, unpeels the poultice.
