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C. B. Anderson

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Old flame

When your persistent rasp begins to chamfer
my wits, I contemplate a fragrant ball
consisting of a substance such as camphor
or naphthalene. Flutters make my skin crawl,

so glancing at the moves you have selected
instantiates a moment of distress.
Your staged performances are misdirected
and leave your leading man aloof  -  unless,

for once, you've strung together veins of lead
from which assorted bits of coloured glass
illume the Church, resuscitating dead
saints whose off-colour quips refresh High Mass.

You're not a moth, and even less am I one,
though long ago we both felt blest to die one.

But that was well before the fire had died,
when passion swarmed and I devoutly tried.

I've pledged no troth, and you are not my mother;
besides yourself, there is at least one other.

Commitment to a solitary candle
is more than ordinary men can handle.

Page(s) 14

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