The Candle
I
recall
it as if it were
yesterday. She was
so lovely and young. In
her hand I darted and flick-
ered away, an ardent lover’s ad-
venturing tongue. I had never known
such yearning, exciting and risky and
cruel. As we walked to the church, I was
burning; she was my darling, my future,
my fuel. I wanted to set her afire right then.
But she was so pure, so chaste; her innocence
only increased my desire. Still, I know the
dangers of haste. So I watched and I studied
and waited, and I saw that her young blood
ran hot. She had no idea we were fated. I
could name what she craved; she could
not. Then in her eye, I caught my
reflection. In her eye, I saw my-
self shine, and I saw the heat
rise on her virgin’s com-
plexion. That’s when
I knew: She was
mine.
Joan
I’ve heard it said that when we die
the soul discards its useless shell,
and our life will flash before our
eyes. Is this a gift from Heaven?
Or a jinx from deepest Hell? Only
the dying know, but what the dying
know the dying do not tell. What
more the dying know it seems I
am about to learn. For when the
sun is at its highest, a lusting torch
will touch the pyre. The flames will rise.
And I will burn. But I have always
been afire. With youth. With faith. With
truth. And with desire. My name is
Joan, but I am called the Maid. My
hands are bound behind me. The fire
beneath me laid.
Fire
I yearn I yearn I yearn my darling
I yearn I yearn I yearn