When It Was Like a Tree On Fire

Sometimes it just happened.
My chest was a sprung cage,
open,
lit up like a fucking tree on fire.
There’s nowhere for that kind of thing to go,
there never is,
not really,
but it's glorious
and everyone can see it when it happens,
and they can feel it, too,
like they all get to be a bit on fire with you
while you smile and smile.
That’s what it was like then.

At least that's some of what it was like.
It’s hard to watch it now from a distance
with a chest closed shut,
a cardboard box with too much tape
and only a dull knife.
It’s hard on a brain to see something old happen,
feverish and bright, 
and not catch the embers
through the glass.