Burning Books

Our pastor told us
that the books of the Devil
must be burned,
so we burned them,

and their released words
grew into elongated sparks
that soared from the fire,
small birds of prey
with flesh in their claws,
disappearing almost at once
once they cleared the sphere
of firelight.

We rejoiced then,

but some of us awakened later
from sweat-damp beds
with those birds digging at our ears,
trenching into us as they sought
the sour meat they knew
must be there.

We met next day
and told each other
of this in whispers
over breakfast,

leaving out the part
about how, just before we’d been
torn from sleep,
we each had had
a thrill ride dream

of marching feet
and whirlwind crosses
and satisfaction
at what we’d made together;

satisfaction
as thick as smoke
curling above
a chimney,
a fallen tower,
a pyre.