Brushfire

by Quinn Latimer

This ravishing is not
the cipher in the grass

occluding the sun.
Meadow singed soon

enough. It is the perfect
dismembering of my

body that I do so well,
each part singing itself

into relief against grass
that is high and blonde

as a girl. I hide inside
her, spelling myself

this way, spelling myself
that. On the cool ground

beneath a tree, my mouth
lies torn and bruised

among the fruit. My face
is beautiful without it,

closed and white as a moon.
Summer is cinder the way

I live her. My art is colder.
I remember how it tasted

like metal. I go towards
my arms where they are

wrapped around each other
in the sun, and I rub them

together until each falls
to fire, and then I call the wind.