Bonfire

Bonfire

Once, people wanted to know

her. Perhaps it was her comely face,

featured almost weekly

on the society page.

Starched gentlemen came

calling, meek as their offerings

of posies, porcelain and perfume.

The one who stole her heart brought

ragtime, gin and cigars. She still

remembers Daddy’s crimson

apoplexy, his farewell

parry: Take my word,

he will burn you.

Oh, but they burned together,

brighter than a bonfire,

his kiss her kindling, her flesh

his fuel. The fire, white

hot, consumed them until only

embers remained. Ash.

Today, her garden offers

posies, gifts her with perfume

and every evening, the quail

come to call. She sits, sipping

gin from porcelain, beneath

a fine sift of ash.

                                                          Ellen Hopkins