I would like to gather some kindling wood
Sprightly, orangey, its dried pearly poignant
Sap clinging to my hands
Make a neat pile in a wood clearing
Light it and throw in your old clothes
The torn jeans, shrunken shirts, stained sweaters
And watch them go up in flames
With a pyromaniac’s delight
Then I would dress you in a shirt
Not white
But in the moon shade of a pale rose
Its pristine folds sprinkled with evening dew
Gradually turning crimson by the setting sun
– Fredericka Barker
