Agni

There was no color

as far as we both could see—

nothing that was not white

or gray or brown

except for my eyes,

bloodshot and blue.

I hadn’t seen you

in months. I’d lingered long

in another king’s palace,

another man’s motel room.

You would not touch me.

I still smelled of him.

The wind blew

and I trembled,

still your vassal,

still your vessel.

So I gathered logs

and built a pyre,

praying to the god of fire,

invoking the words

I’d read on the back

of a cigarette pack:

“IN HOC

SIGNO

VINCES”

Then I blazed and burned

and danced for you,

pure as the day I was born,

a golden-red sylph

glowing in the snow.

Your face, as you stood and watched,

was inscrutable as dogwood,

veiled like early spring.