Tonight's Poet Corner: Averse To Flames

Averse To Flames
by Belinda Roddie

I stay away from fire these days -
because at the end of every single
fingertip, there's a short fuse, and if
any of them are ignited, I become a
living firecracker. I drink cold water,

flat champagne, extinguish my hot
insides with bubbles and rain left
on my umbrella. And when I sleep,
I dream in endless fever - colors on
the scorched end of the spectrum,

rising and falling like the breath of
Hestia's hearth. Or pulsing like the
percussion on Vulcan's anvil. If you
hold me, you may feel the radiation
bury its hands into the pockets of

your skin, find solace in folds you
never thought you had before. I can
remain in place for a little bit, but then
the inferno builds, and I'm forced to
pull away so that the temperature drops.

I need to become less volatile, less
flammable, less explosive. I wish it
didn't have to be this way. They always
say how love heats you up, but I'd like
to cool down instead. Even in this frigid

winter, frost on the windshield, I want
my blood to freeze over like ice on a
dark road. I worry that if the cauldron
keeps boiling, all I'll do is bubble over.
Every emotion I have will evaporate,

twist its way up into the air like
invisible hands fondling the mist.
And once that happens, once all
I feel and all I think is reduced to vapor,
what exactly will I have left?