After St. John of the Cross

Arsonist, whose
Lighter held high
With love had cut me
To the quick, now burn
The remains
In a blaze of light.

Chemo, whose needles
Burn the veins
And surgeon
Whose touch knows how,
Cut death
From the depths of my bowel.

Because you kindle
The shine of the coalmine
Within me, its glare
Makes clear a reason
For the black load's
Being there.

You are the warmth
Aroused where your head
Laid on my breast.
You are the life of the flame
Fueling the slow
Combustion of breath.

     
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