"Fire Hazard” by Amy Irish

Handling the thin-pressed wood pulp
pages of this year’s journal—
the ever-hungry stomach I feel bound to fill
for history, for immortality, for sanity—
I circle the insatiably empty texture
between thumb and forefinger and consider
how sweet these former trees would smell
on fire.

Tome after tome in false worship
of self, of word, of thought
tempt these fingers to pinch and rip
with slow-motion focus, turning books
into narrow, curling strips
of kindling.

Today I long to blaze, to burn my muse
at the stake, my life’s work feeding flames
bright with my defiance, my refusal
to produce. Then: This is great, write this down
comes whispering through the smoke,
my maker’s heart still making art
of self-destruction.

About Amy Irish
She/Her/Hers

Amy Wray Irish grew up near Chicago, received her MFA from the University of Notre Dame, then fled the Midwest for Colorado sunshine. She has been published in Spit Poet Zine and Thought for Food; she has work upcoming in Progenitor and Chiaroscuro. Her third chapbook, Breathing Fire, won the 2020 Fledge Competition and is now available from MiddleCreek Publishing. For more information go to amywrayirish.com.