Malaika King Albrecht
HOW TO KISS FIRE
Dozens of flame skimmers
spark orange and red
at the edge of water and land.
The devil’s knitting needles,
these dragonflies, stitch the pond to sky.
All magic transpires in this elemental mix.
When water or earth touches air or fire,
Intersections birth thunderstorms,
forest fires, water spouts.
Whoever makes a friend of fire
will not drown in the shallow end.
Wade out past the hips
where the flame skimmers weigh
a soul with simple calculations:
How heavy are your arms, your heart, your feet?
What have you held? What have you lost?
The flicker of fire
stitches the distance between us.
The elemental mix of what is and isn’t yet.
I wouldn’t have known enough to ask for this.
I hold my breath, and your voice shifts
the weight of my hips in the wooden chair.
We are stormy-eyed in candlelight.
I lean in, wet my lips.