How I Learned to Eat Fire

Her stage name was the Human Candle.
Her special trick, the Moonshot
her mouth, a fountain of fire

that lit up the midway and kindled
all the shabby striped canvas tents,
made them dance in the dim light.

She held a tongue of flame in her mouth,
moved it from one torch to another.
She rolled a fireball from the tip of her finger

up the back of her arm, across her shoulders
down the other arm to her hand. She spun
a half-dozen torcher in a dazzling mandala.
Then she did the Jellyfish and quenched it all.

In the dark I was dizzy with smoke,
with the lingering scent of sandalwood.
I felt the Slow Burn on my skin.

I was moth to her mouth, trigger to her Shotgun.
I wanted to rest her burning wick on my tongue.
I wanted her to drag my flame across the floor

from one burning iron to another. I craved
Immolation, Blow Out, just one Fiery Kiss before
the Straight Snuff. I hoped dawn would never come.

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