Holidays on Fire

(a poem ending with a line from Milton)

yet in the August sun, you desire weight, skin

for shedding, dripping in salty constellation

their swollen fetuses falling around you, the medical

names for flesh inspire necrotic scabs

turbulent angels worm into your mind

to wonder what flies are worth

each a ghost lifting the bubble of disease

around the world, how the nets are torn

not only in a chorus, but a choral echo

of buzz and hum, and on your masterful lips

a prayer, bloated, illuminates like a cautionary tale

the hailstorm is bitter, expletives drop to their knees

in a skewered communion, liturgy is red meat

lift your voice with the bench of fire-breathers and all

the candles you burn assume the shadows,

from those flames, no light, but rather darkness visible

a poem for dverse candles and light