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Fire is my brother’s mistress. (So he says.)
Tonight, through her, as chef, he will conjure
the hot of curry for our mouths & stomachs. He will pull
a meal out of the camping-field
that we will eat
in front of his mistress glowing
in our faces, the dark gathering
at our four backs, the stars white
hot-specks light-years above our scalps.
Whilst she dances
scarlet & orange & yellow & magenta & blue wriggling-hot
as Salome she will eat
the air. And because of the dark
that will gather at our backs, and surround us,
her song
of lit colours will be all the more rich.
First my brother begins a little grave: he turfs
the sward, and to contain
his flickering slut he surrounds
the brown earth-mouth with grave granite -
a wall of Cornish stone-teeth. Then he lays
the fire, the stuff of his fire to be, he puts
wood in the hole, closes
the ground with dried grasses & twigs. He is a purist:
his ceremony has no place
for paper, and he must set
her alight with only one strike.
So he pulls out
his single tiny penis, the stiff pink-bulbed match;
with it he scratches
one of the Cornish granites (with England’s
Glory). Lo & behold
his mistress begins
at the tip which he tickles
the dried grasses with. My brother takes
a one gasp & then gives
a one long puff back: he feeds
her smokiness with his breath. And now she takes
hold of the grass-hair of the corpse she will bring
to lit life.
My brother’s pot of spices
will also come to life, come
to our lives, tease
our mouths with taste-flames, give
weight to our stomachs. My brother’s mistress
begins her mesmeric dance. She wallows
in her searing fluidity. Despite
my brother’s profession
having blessed him
with heat-tolerant fingerprints he is careful
of her touch as he adds
the smut blacks
of charcoals that are like solid fragments of night (dark
offerings that will enhance her).
All four of us, whether woman or man, as we feel
her heat press our faces, are afraid of
and in love with her, & her dance ...
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