You roiled me and
set me hot enough
to shine red and angry
while still being
in love with you.

How dare you make me
insecure? I was
solid as a leftover coal
and I was sure
there was nothing left
that could burn, and now

the innermost piece of me
is raging and I’ve got
to handle all that
consuming flame.

Mistakes happen.
I am tempted to say
you are one. I am tempted to say
I made you happen without
you being involved in the process.

Sitting with my hand
on the warm and cooling phone,
I’m ready to dial again just to see
what opens up into full fire.
The only problem: you
would be on the other end, and you
fan the blaze until I can’t control it.

Instead I will wait for you to arrive tonight.
You roil me, you and your simple words, your
easy grasp of the easy that goes against
my own love of the complex. You roil me,
set me hot enough to let anger
draw me out — first a thin trickle of smoke,
then a thread of flame, then
something transformational —
a tangle of heat and destruction
that gives off sacred, addictive light.