by Daniel Bosch
Proud as I am, Michaela, proud as I am
Of my eyes’ blue in yours, your hand in mine,
I gather with your bones dry sticks of blame,
And catch in tears the scent of gasoline:
Though being true to you is my desire
In being true, I place sticks on your pyre.
In being true, I place sticks on your pyre,
Building a nest our likeness will ignite.
You match my sticks, and my yarns’ ligatures
Fasten us bone to bone and like to like.
Though I grow warm to see myself return
In you, I dread how brightly I must burn.
In you I dread how brightly I must burn,
How I’ll survive as fuel for your cremation,
How you will curse my bones because you learned
To strike hot flame from my flint inspiration.
So tears from your blue eyes do whet my shame,
Proud as I am, Michaela, proud as I am.
About the Author:
Daniel Bosch is Senior Editor of Berfrois. This poem draws its structure from George Herbert’s great “Sin’s Round.”