Shulie

When I tell you that she is a fireball,
I mean to say
that she fears not the
charring of cultural silks and rods,
burning up oxidized visions
until her words are carbon-sealed
upon the perennial page,
her feminine veil
forged in smoke.

When I tell you that she is a firebrand,
I mean to say
that flames know how to dance,
performing heated contortions
of fist and wit
singeing holes through
sepia newspapers and Freudian slips,
hungrily lapping up anachronisms
like old kindling.

When I tell you that she is aflame,
I mean to say
that her light comes with a price,
ample mind ablaze
with neurotic shadows
blooming, ball-and-chained
to the heels of her incandescence,
the fire that commanded oceans
snuffed out by airless spaces.

Photo Credit: Thad Zajdowicz Flickr via Compfight cc