The Phoenix

To lovers born to me that now are dead,

I become that other thing,

a burnt offering, the phoenix of new beds

 

Every dawn I rise,

like an early-bird casualty,

minus the worm

 

Free from the hook which dangles

torn from the root,

which strangles

 

I’m burning like volcanoes,

on this field of scarecrows,

letting only the blackest birds through

 

this is what happens when they love you,

when they love, love, love

until your hands turn to onyx

 

When they cremate your kisses,

when they incinerate your caresses,

until your love

turns charcoal,

turns molten,

turns furious,

turns to dust,

turns to fentanyl,

turns to spider veins,

turns to an abscess,

turns gangrene,

turns obscene,

turns promiscuous,

turns to Jesus,

turns to slot machines,

turns to rye & Coke,

turns to a joke,

turns to switchblades,

turns to serenades,

turns to balustrades,

turns Parisian,

turns bohemian,

turns Bourgeois,

turns kamikaze,

turns to classical music,

turns tragic,

turns to death glares,

turns Greek,

turns to a woman,

turns to a man,

turns intellectual,

turns transsexual,

turns to PTSD,

turns to LSD,

turns to pyromaniacs,

turns to panic-attacks,

turns to chain-smoking,

turns to choking,

turns to BDSM,

turns to therapists,

turns to artists,

turns to Carcinoma,

turns to a college diploma,

turns to dyslexia,

turns to anorexia,

turns to insomnia,

turns to candle holders,

turns to cold shoulders,

turns to sinew,

turns to a Jew,

turns to frost,

turns into a holocaust,

the sort of holocaust that

only a phoenix could survive

 

nothing will extinguish my flame!

 

To lovers born to me that now are dead,

I’ve turned into this other thing instead,

the firebird who makes of your pale offerings;

 

something incandescent,

something iridescent,

something phosphorescent,

 

something glowing,

 

something growing in spite of your wrongs,

something with deathless feathers

and tattooed songs.