Fire – Joan McGavin

Burn the brocade that my mother
wore at my marriage –
the dressmaker’s sample.
Hold the match steady.
Let the flame taste it,
develop a taste for it.

Watch as it curls
and uncolours,
the cloth thins to filaments.
Witness fire’s quiet strength.
Let this be an end
to her meddling.

She spoiled for each fight
with my lover
till he walked out, exhausted.
Burn the brocade

so she dons with each garment
the knowledge
she’ll never know comfort in clothes
or pride as she moves in them.

Her skin will long
for the cool kiss of water,
hosting instead

hot black ash:
a tattoo
that pierces her pores.

Fire: be the agent of this change.
Air is your angel.

Copyright © 2013, Joan McGavin
Go to the writer’s page
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