Because I once saw a man set fire to his own left arm
and when he fell with the flames

He saw only his shirt and tie shred away
and not his own skin unbraiding in a column of smoke

He smelled like fried steak
and he could taste the gray ash collecting on his bottom lip

But he swore it was someone else’s limb burning blue
he was just getting the backlash

And when a thoughtful passerby offered him some water
he shook his head through the plumy clouds of tar

for somewhere was a man on fire who needed it more
Though his reflection stared stoically back at him
(from his spirit pooling on the ground)

with metamorphic hair and sunken sockets

He carried on, just carrying on
And he figured the sun was having fun at his expense

Then he scratched at a scab he mistook for an itch
and he marveled at his radiant fingertip

– Samantha Hawkins