The phoenix, dead
In your ashtray,
Waits for the warmth
Of your breath
Between her wings.
Lips parted,
You could exhale embers
If you could just
Remember
The taste of lighter fluid
On your tongue.
But you doused that fire long ago.

The burn of your heart
Gave way to heartburn
And still-cold TV dinners.
Among sinners,
You’re a lukewarm saint.
And you couldn’t wait
To stand at Peter’s gate,
But that halo you’re expecting
Is a consolation prize.
Heaven’s not a last reward:
It’s fireflies behind your eyes,
The spark that leapt
From her lips to your thighs
The fire that burned
When your heart beat the skies
Your phoenix once flew through.

Here’s a secret:
You
Are a match,
Waiting to be struck.
So scrape yourself against the floor,
Start with a spark
And burn to a roar.
Your phoenix can fly,
Your phoenix can soar,
But only if you remember
What your life lives for.