(i really like this one, so i’m only gonna leave it up for a couple days before i take it down to try to get it published. 😉 )

and the simple truth is this
i am always on fire
i don’t know how to put myself out
and whenever i come close
whenever i open a window
to let the breeze in
or step out into the rain
i can never let that last ounce
of fire die
it is that which i hold onto
as dearly as god

it is that which will follows me
to death’s house
and we’ll stay up all night
talking about the world
and what we remember it was

but first
i will find myself
in the windows of buildings
seventeen actual stories
above the ground

i will find myself in the blaze
of a lamp post on the red curtains
of the stage

i will find myself
in the torches that the righteous
and the rest of bare

i will find myself
in the ashes of a farmhouse
in the absolute middle
of america

i will find myself
gnawing at a desk
with the heat of my hands
and i know
that this is where i’ll die

and i know
that this
is as real
as the bonfire
stretching its arms
across the back of my
beautiful lover

how could i ever not die for you?

i don’t have the strength
to crawl away
from your love

you feed me

this is where i’ll die
just a fire
desperately trying to burn
as long as it can



Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

11 thoughts on “EFFIGY”

    1. Carl, I always look forward to your comments. That’s exactly what I was trying to say. Damn you, Dylan Thomas for saying it in less words than be, but yeah. I’m so glad you stopped by and left this here.

  1. I didn’t have to read this poem to know that it was mine – (all I had to do was see three words in your tag list, “identity”, “love” , “self-destruction”) – even though thinking that a poem is directed specifically at oneself is, admittedly, something of an occupational hazard…

    I know that every drop of a word that I encounter, read across the expanse of these poetry blogs, feeds the coals in my own grate. The heat of these words still glow warm in the palms of my own hands. And as for having, “the strength to crawl away”… (the words which burn me up the most,) I just as soon be farmhouse ashes than have to go.

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