"Fire" by Douglas Manuel
Fire
A must, a nickname, something one needed,
as if birth names weren’t enough:
Sugarfoot, Ls, Junebug, Hog, Bottom-rung,
Words, Fox, and Doc Bird.
Names he’s heard,
names of other DJs, names nicked from quick
thoughts and pinprick needle tongues. He needed one.
How to find one? Earn it, search for it, make it,
rake the leafy lawn of his mind to see what
he’ll find?
No reds, oranges, and yellows
falling anymore. Now all is winter; all is
the muted snow blunting the bladed edges
of the world. Him and her in the tight curl
of love, cuddling, hard to tell him from her,
her from him.
How ‘bout DJ Damon? he begins,
slicing the silence with the heat of his breath.
Her left-hand combs through the hairs of his chest.
Don’t you wanna be more than you? she asks.
Outside, the wind whetting the cold, icicles
sleeking out to daggers hanging from the awning.
How can I be more than me?
he says. She is
giggling. Stick with me,
and you’ll see. You’ll see.
Photo Credit: Staff