A WOMAN I KNEW ATE FIRE FOR BREAKFAST
And the light would tattoo itself across her mouth
like a flash of ink across a page.
The flames didn’t harm her, didn’t singe her lips
or her strong jaw. She ate fire for breakfast before
boarding the C train, before taking her seat
in her pink power suit, before drug store nylons which held her
like a sweet assassin or like the boss who asked her to stay
after the 5:48 train departed, the office the color of cicadas,
the world overturned to a place where she held
her breath, and lay across the desk like a lamb chop
or a slice of coconut cake. The boss’s breath coming faster now
until her mouth opened and she let the flames lift him away.