Poem Prepared to be Set On Fire
_____________________________________________

We’ve gathered here—the small-time
         farmers worried about their raspberry fields,
                  the 14-year-old girls with the names of old crushes

written in pink cursive, parents with copies of old bills,
         so many others, & me. We’ve come
                  to stick our troubles in the belly of this statue:

the Boogg. With old report cards & photographs
         shoved deep inside, the festival fathers
                  will put a match to a fuel-soaked cloth

till flames spread along its human form
         consuming all our losses & our wishes.
                  So often I’ve come to confess

my tiny trespasses, the loves wasted & wanted,
         the curses caught in the swell of my cheeks.
                  Every creek or fountain my son asks me

for a penny so he can flip it into the current
         with a hope attached. He watches the copper
                  rise, flickering with light

the way this crowd gazes upward now
         to watch the orange sparks ascend: fire-edged
                  bits of paper glowing against summer dark.

by Gerry LaFemina, from The Window Facing Winter
| Home |