Spread the Fire: Sacrifice like a babe in the belly

A touching, beautiful poem by Kristin Reynolds was worthy of a Spread the Fire feature:

Soon the walls will collapse,
the fields turn commonwealth gray,
the sun will become red
with tears—

while the moon recites Winken, Blinken and Nod
under covers with arsenic lace,
and the secret sunny-eyed pearl
I’m growing in the wicker-man’s
false-bottom garden,
will flicker
and spit at the shadows—

as time raises fists to fire
blowing a prison yard wind,
and deserts eclipse
every bone I’ve buried
like a dog

(a small god
who’s reversing her name)

whose tides are pinned
to her chest,
while her love of bones is suckled
torrentially painfully
dry

like long shafts of wheat
in my hair,

and foxtails
beneath my skin

after the burn of deluge.

I have given
and I have received
violets and black widows, both

with the innocence
of a dreaming child
picking wildflowers
from mother’s wild garden
on a clear
and warm Summer’s day—

for the love
I thought I’d forgotten
in my creases
of abalone skin.

© Kristin Reynolds 2 2 2011

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