Fred Schmalz
Several Combustions
- Here they forget how a horse stands
- moments after being born. A woman
- holds her breath and the flash
- funnels light into her eye. There
- it turns upside down and spits back
- a railway’s pair of tracks. In her head,
- the world is full of parallels.
- An accident waits just out of sight
- beyond earshot arriving most often
- at meal times or cycling across
- the parquet plaza by the license bureau.
- Storefronts. Storm fronts. Some trigger
- in the tile pattern casts her
- into wreckage. She is not injured
- but she is surrounded by rent bodies,
- bent joists. She smells gasoline and rubber,
- sees through black smoke. Then she disappears
- into a streetcar’s path, believing
- she will be reincarnated as a book of matches.
- People will walk away before
- she is struck, even though she is on fire.
- The papers will report
- other incidents of arson
- in the neighborhood: two teens
- rubbing their incendiary crotches
- together in the patio darkness; a housewife
- immolated by a jar of pills. She saddens
- faced with buckets of sand which leave
- her desires hidden, what is and isn’t
- fire reduced to her brilliant neck,
- two otherwise straight lines bent.
- Everything else is glass
- or neon gas inside glass
- or slab on slab of marble.
- She can barely stand heaven
- cleaving the living from the rest.