FIRE EATER
February 17, 2011
© Fred Dumpling. Redistribution is prohibited.
He sits at the fireside eating coals.
He reaches into the flames, chooses one
as if it is a popped corn kernel, not
a piece of long-dead earth still burning,
pops it into his mouth, and swallows: gulp—
with a satisfied exhale of steam.
The skin peels back from his fingertips,
curling black like the lashes that frame his
red-rimmed eyes or like the smoke to which he
imputes their redness. Grief is, after all,
unproductive, he tells me. The sweat runs
in shining rivulets down his dark cheeks.
I watch him eat. I don't remind him I
was already dead long before the flames
ever touched my body. If he does this,
he tells me, then we can be together.
I believe him somehow. I believe him.
I watch him burn. Acts of love inspire
hope even as reason goes up in flames.
His cheeks become golden and white and bright
like the sun. His eyes melt away, and his
finger bones peek out from beneath the flesh
burned up. He glows at his wid'ning edges.
The fire shoots up, engulfs him, consumes
his skin and his bones, his organs, his heart.
I watch his silhouette disintegrate,
and for one glorious moment, it seems
as though he will fly out from those flames, whole
and laughing, sweat-free and face and eyes bright.
But the fire dies down, and I am left
standing in a pile of his ashes.