Red

I am
a red clay pot
that you
have set down
deep
into the fire.
Swollen
with your
heat,
I crack
and split
to become
a thousand
hot shards.

Quiet man,
with your
red beard
and ruddy skin,
you have
made me into
the bluest part
of a flame,
so that
I writhe
and tremble
in the hot
breath of wind
that is
your mouth,
red
and rooted down
where the stems
of my body
meet.

Like a match
thrown to pines
in the driest season,
I burn
with a fury
I have
never known,
burn
until my whole heart
has gone to
ash and red embers,
smoldering
in the palms
of your two
tender hands.