Too late to talk of causes.  A faulty switch?
A pile of letters left in an attic’s heat?
Desire unveiled too late to relinquish

its sensual trail?  All these, and love’s capacity
to make a fearful pit, then send a Beatrice to us
in Limbo. Protectors of the smiths,

patrons of handicrafts; molders of metal
dreams. You conceived me: one of your
handmaidens forged out of bronze and yellow

flames. Beautiful corridor of fire
transmuting ordinary days into shimmering
reliefs. I was the heat, the blast of stars

rooting itself in love’s soft metal. I was the maker
of alloys naturally weak. Gifts that I hammered
and hammered. I never ran from technique.


Copyright © 2008 M. B. McLatchey.  All rights reserved.
Published in
The New Formalist, Volume VIII, Number I.
House on Fire