Her name was Vatra


*Image found HERE

Her name was Vatra

She was burning;
like tobacco in a modern art museum,
as a dragonfly strips its wings
screaming beneath a wolf-head totem,
her pulse against the cold door
of a corner dollar store.
She was burning
like rain could know no other arch nemesis,
burning like a fever
of torrents transplant inside begonias,
burning, her fingers like vignette
of dogs allergic to moonlight,
her sweaty brow against
the million limbs of corroded gods;
she was burning
like a deer courting wildfires,
her torso like a pyre
versus the kids who gather to roast marshmallows,
clumsy and ancient,
her mouth a lit matchbox
against the geometries of metros,
she was burning,
keeping the blood of lacerated dryads warm,
her arms like witchcraft
juxtaposed to shades of blue,
burning like Marlboro
between the fingers of delinquents,
her hair like a Molotov of summers
bribed with moonshine.

I tell her the sky is eaten up,
we are re-made from smoke,
our oceans are kerosene,
igniting our bones to burn for nothing.

She was burning,
her eyes flints of fossil hearts,
expired honeydew,
like lanterns wailing for the tummy of the whale,
like lights in bedrooms past 3 a.m.,
like candles dripping over graves,
she was burning and just said
“I know.”


*”Vatra” is Fire on Serbian

~ by Oloriel on October 13, 2016.

6 Responses to “Her name was Vatra”

  1. I really love how you painted the paradox of passion, that flame we’re so afraid of… just maybe we have to feed it with the right amounts… maybe it’s the only the best of arsonists that don’t get blistered hands.

    • Thank you, Bjorn, I really love your interpretation, the arsonist line is perhaps a suma sumarum of my whole poem, and you said it so much better than I could.

  2. And she burns because that’s all there is to do.
    In the bewildering circumstance of life and its myriad elements, what and where we are being led to and by what or whom become insignificant. All that matters is the heat of every moment, inscribed on our skin in the form of shadows.
    The magnanimous imagery makes it all the more painful. There’s acceptance in reproach and reproach in acceptance. But your words are so devoid of that very approach and that’s what makes them so intense and powerful.

    “her mouth a lit matchbox
    against the geometries of metros,”
    Poignant and heart breaking. Because acknowledgement doesn’t make it go away.
    Beautiful, beautiful writing.

    • Thank you very much for your comment, dear friend, I am always beyond delighted to hear from you (and I wish I heard from you more often; I hope you are well, I hope you are hanging in there, I hope you are still dreaming!)

  3. All I could think was super spicy hot sauce you wanted while reading this…

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